


LA LA LAND

by aiviloti



Series: nocturne [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Iwaizumi and Akaashi are engaged at the beginning of the fic, Iwaizumi and Akaashi breaks up by the end of the fic, Iwaoi endgame, M/M, Pining, Tags after this are basically all spoilers lol, band seijoh! but it's only iwaizumi + matsuhana, iwaaka strangers to lovers to exes to friends, iwaoi exes to strangers to ??? to lovers, matsuhana are good friends, matsuhana endgame, matsuhana friends to lovers, matsuhana mutual pining, slowish burn, there is barely fluff tbh, there is no cheating nor falling in love w another person while engaged i swear on my honour, there is no infidelity i swear on my honour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiviloti/pseuds/aiviloti
Summary: “I wrote you a song,” Oikawa remembers Iwaizumi telling him, not once, not twice, but far too many to count over the years that has their shadows and laughter and tears lurking within.em>He wrote you so many songs, and all you wrote him was a letter. Now he won’t even send you a wedding invitation. Fitting, right?“Oikawa-san.” Hinata Shouyou’s voice sounds in his head, clear as day. “Iwaizumi-san is getting married.”As Oikawa’s grown to find, sometimes, trying is all you have.If there is no fear that looms in the background of every step you take, that is simply called doing. Trying is when you think it won't work, but you still go for it anyway. It is running headfirst into a concrete wall, then wishfully hoping it will give way to your idiocy, or stubbornness — whichever applied more.Oikawa Tooru wants to be unafraid.This is a story about being afraid as hell, but this is a story about not wanting to be afraid of trying, no matter where that may lead.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Iwaizumi Hajime, Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei & Iwaizumi Hajime, Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei & Oikawa Tooru, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: nocturne [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873690
Comments: 97
Kudos: 185
Collections: aiviloti's commissions





	1. prologue.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valkyree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyree/gifts).



> Ta-da.  
> Playlist: [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5NGQLjlMqORK0VWk2yr4yf?si=onM7Xs84QkCLY9alXaI2nA)
> 
> You don't _really_ have to read the first few parts to understand it, but reading them anyway will provide a more in depth understanding of this! And this is just me tooting my own horn but I love the 1st part with the entirety of my heart, so do what with that you will!!
> 
> Vidhie you enabled the entirety of this thank u so much i hope you love it :>

oikawa tooru.

Oikawa breathes in.

He inhales until it feels like his lungs are going to burst, then exhales, trying to still the shakiness in his hitching and uneven breaths.

He’s placed himself in a situation where calmness is an unattainable state of being, but the person on the other end of the phone does not need to know this. Back pressed against the concrete walls of this flat that he has lived in for the past few years, but still does not feel quite like home, Oikawa desperately wills himself to cool down.

_ It’s okay _ , he tells himself with as much confidence as he can possibly muster, even though he knows better than anyone else this is a lie.

Nothing about this moment is ideal — a phone gripped too tightly in his palm, a heart beating too quickly against his chest, the squeaking of a ceiling fan that he should have gotten fixed long ago too piercing in the ear unshielded by the phone; everything is too much of something.

“So,” he begins, in what he hopes is a level voice. “I know we haven’t talked in like, eight years, and that things ended pretty badly between us, but what the fuck do you mean you’re engaged to be married?” His voice cracks, laying the panic and disbelief bare.

The first thought that occurs to Oikawa is  _ well fuck.  _ The next is  _ fuck, I didn’t mean to swear _ .

Argentina at this time of the year doesn’t resemble the cold, not even remotely. Yet, the tips of Oikawa’s fingers are icy against the warmth of the cell phone in his hands. This is something that should feel familiar, talking to Iwaizumi through the phone. But then again, perhaps things are easier when there isn’t an ocean that Oikawa crossed without a proper goodbye separating them, or eight year of silence that wedges an irreparable crack in everything that used to be Iwaizumi and Oikawa.

Oikawa waits for something, for a response, anger even, or for the phone call to be hung up. He waits more. He waits and waits, and waits, until a laugh.

“What do you want, Oikawa?” Iwaizumi’s voice rings from the phone. It sweeps a wave of nostalgia towards Oikawa, hearing from someone he used to call his best friend. “You ran off to god knows where-”

“-Argentina. I told you in the letter,” he muttered.

“You ran off to  _ a place I can’t be bothered to remember _ , and now that you hear I’m getting married you suddenly decide I exist?”

“Iwa-” Oikawa bites his tongue to stop a familiar name from rolling off it, “-izumi, you’re the one getting  _ married _ , I can’t believe you hadn’t even told me and-”

“Fucking hell, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi snarls. Oikawa winces and stops talking. “What was I supposed to do, sit here and cry about you for eight years, eighteen years, then eighty? So  _ you _ get to ramble about your fears, you get to chase them, and I’m not allowed to move on?”

Every word of Iwaizumi drills a hole on the coffin where the nails are supposed to go, but it is the anger his words are steeped in, the hurt that echoes off the walls of Oikawa’s flat so loudly despite how quiet and controlled his voice is that tacks the last of the nails, firmly and neatly into the edges of the coffin.

“Iwaizumi, that’s not what I meant-”

“Please leave me alone, Oikawa,” He says. “Let me live.” 

* _ click* _

The detached beeps from the phone fills the silence of the room. Oikawa slumps against the wall and lets himself succumb to the pull of gravity until he’s sitting on the floor. Gently, he rests the phone next to him on the floor, the screen still blinking with the only proof of a conversation he’s been thinking about for years, one that did not last even a full minute.

In hindsight, he should have known this was going to happen, but hearing it for himself does not make it in the slightest easier to bear.

Watching a bomb come your way does not mean it hurts any less when it goes up in flames.


	2. another day of sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there. i just thought you should know that if you have any rambling thoughts while reading this or livetweeting or whatever the fuck, if you have any thoughts, i really do want to see it. you see this authors note here? this is me already discarding the remnants of my ego to tell you that if u have anything u wanna say, i am all ears. this is me, not below explicitly asking for validation, but do what sparks joy.
> 
> thank u.  
> i rly, _rly_ hope u enjoy.  
> ily v much.

iwaizumi hajime.

The night is a pitch black cape. It covers the stage, stars embroidered across its gentle seams and fabric. The spotlight comes on, shining brightly on Iwaizumi. There is a feral glint in his eyes, one that tells every last audience in the crowd that whatever that is going to come, they aren’t prepared for it.

Hanamaki gives him a look. ‘ _ Whenever you’re ready _ ’, it says.

Iwaizumi nods. The stars that hang in the sky are calling out to him. The crowd is calling out to him. He is where he’s supposed to be. He is here.

_ Let’s do this, _ he wills silently, then watches as Hanamaki’s lips curl into a grin. It invites a familiar drumline that nudges him into the music. Before he knows it, he’s pouring his feelings into a song, letting the guitar riffs and steady thrums of a bass roll over him.

“This is for you,” he yells at the crowd. “I love you.”

The crowd yells back, showering Iwaizumi’s band with hysterical love confessions. Somewhere in the crowd, Akaashi beams at Iwaizumi.

###  ***

Iwaizumi leans on Akaashi’s shoulder when they board the last available train home. The combined effort of the train sailing smoothly across the track, along with Akaashi staying as still as a statue grants Iwaizumi a peaceful 15 minute nap as they make their way home.

“We’re almost here, Hajime.” Gently, Akaashi prods Iwaizumi awake. He stirs.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles. “Hadn’t meant to fall asleep on you.”

“It’s alright. You’ve had a long day.”

Their hands are laced together all the way from the train station to the konbini they stopped at for two omurice bentos. It is only at the door do they break apart to let Akaashi fumble for the keys to the flat. Their flat.

“You can go shower first, I’ll heat the bentos up.”

Iwaizumi beams at him. “Thank you.”

“For what,” Akaashi hums. 

“For being you.” Iwaizumi is rewarded with a blush that creeps up Akaashi’s ears.

“Shush, you.”

Tchaikovsky’s 5th symphony plays in the background when Iwaizumi sinks into the creases of the sofa after the meal. It is no more than 10 pm, far too early for Iwaizumi to feel this drowsy, but Iwaizumi has spent more time in the past week hustling between the volleyball gym and the music studio behind Hanamaki’s music store than he has spent at the place he calls home. The boundaries of time and the actions are affiliated to them has blurred, but he thinks it’s forgivable.

Home.

Sometimes home is not a place. Sometimes home is a person. Sometimes said person offers to clean up after dinner, something remarkably ordinary. Unimpressive. Mundane. And yet you’ll still think this is the happiest you’ve ever been in life.

There is something about the breeze on a warm summer night, sweeping in through lace curtains, and faint hums of cricket chirps from a distance. There is something about lounging on a couch with simple contentment that feels like buffers from life itself. Like filler arcs of a manga, nothing central to the path towards your goal in life but still enjoyable all the same, idle moments spent picking up stray papers, dust away the layer that’s beginning to form atop the coffee table, flick through the books scattered around.

But here are the quarters of Akaashi Keiji. He does not do “stray papers”, “layers of dust” nor “scattered books”. He is about as tidy and organised as it gets, and Iwaizumi finds this level of diligence when it comes to keeping everything in place incredibly endearing.

“Hiya.” Akaashi drops into the seat next to him as he spaces out. “What are you thinking about?”

“How living with you is making my life so much easier.” Iwaizumi chuckles, but jumps away indignantly when Akaashi pokes him in the rib. “Stop that.” He scowls.

“Oh, is that all I’m good for?” Akaashi teases. “Model roommate, making your life comfortable?”

“Nah, model boyfriend too.” Iwaizumi slouches back into the couch, then leans in towards Akaashi.

Akaashi’s gaze softens as it lands on Iwaizumi. “Yeah?” It barely comes out as a whisper, sending a wave of fondness through Iwaizumi’s heart.

“Mhm,” he murmurs. “You are comfort itself.” He presses a kiss to Akaashi’s forehead.

Gently, Akaashi puts his hands on both sides of Iwaizumi’s cheeks and pushes him away until he’s at a distance that lets him look at Akaashi clearly. The twitch at the corners of his lips tells Iwaizumi there must be something Akaashi wants to say, so he waits for his lips to part. Instead of doing that, Akaashi surprises him by getting down on one knee.

“Iwaizumi Hajime, light of my life, the recipient of comfort itself,” Akaashi chuckles. “Will you marry me?”

Tchaikovsky is still playing in the background. There is the faint smell of the konbini omurice they had for dinner. Iwaizumi is in his favourite couch,  _ their _ favourite couch, in this flat that radiates nothing but warmth and hope.

He holds a hand out, letting Akaashi thread his ring onto his finger. “Hell yeah I will, Keiji.”


	3. someone in the crowd.

iwaizumi hajime.

“Akaashi proposed yesterday night, after the concert.” Iwaizumi is poking at the ice cubes in his coffee with a metal straw when he breaks the news to Matsukawa and Hanamaki. He waits for a reply, but he doesn’t get one, only wide stares. “So I said yes,” he offers.

There is a strawberry tart in front of Iwaizumi. He doesn’t usually have unexplainable urges for pastries, but the world has not been easily explainable as of late. It’s raining more than what you would usually find in a standard summer. The tickets he wanted for that jazz piano fair that no one is usually interested in were miraculously sold out within seconds. His friends are looking the furthest thing away from thrilled at the announcement of his engagement.

Glumly, he cuts an edge off the strawberry tart, and pops it into his mouth. On the list of baffling occurrences, he decides he’ll let the pastry craving slide.

It began years ago when Iwaizumi decided they should totally start a band.

They are at their standard  _ ‘We cheer and hype ourselves up after what seems to be a successful concert and then realise we have to go through all of this stress again very soon because this is the path we chose, lucky us’ _ celebrational party when Iwaizumi drops the announcement.

He had expected teasing maybe, for being the first one to get settled down among them. Surprise or shock was the other thing he had expected, perhaps mixed with a hint of pride or happiness for him. Yet he finds himself watching the hesitant glances exchanged between the two. Bitterness coils around his stomach.

He eats another slice of strawberry tart. “What,” he says, looking at his friends through narrowed eyes, letting the sweetness of the strawberry tart stay on his tongue. 

Iwaizumi is confused, of course he is. This is great, this is everything he has been working towards over the past years, everything he has been looking forward to. They should be as happy for him as he is. Everything is simply  _ off _ about this reaction he’s getting.

His two friends exchange a silent conversation through pinched brows and fleeting glances from each other to Iwaizumi. 

Matsukawa speaks first. “Cool. Very co-”

Hanamaki doesn’t let him finish. He gives Matsukawa a dirty look, then returns his gaze to Iwaizumi. There is a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Iwaizumi wishes he hadn’t seen it. “Are you really sure about this, Iwaizumi?”

Iwaizumi takes a sip of the iced coffee. Outside the coffee shop, it’s beginning to rain again. He’s in love with Akaashi, of course he’s sure. He said yes, didn’t he? He feels further confused.

“Sure about what, exactly?” He prods for an elaboration, Hanamaki obliges.

“Sure this is how you want to spend the rest of your life.”

“I’ve been with Akaashi for five years. If you didn’t like him why would you willingly put up with him by my side for so lo-”

“This isn’t about anything we have against him, Iwaizumi, not that we have anything against him anyway. This is about  _ you _ .”

There is more silence that follows, disrupted only by the clinks of a metal spoon against glass as Matsukawa pretends to be very invested in stirring his milk tea. There are so many passive-aggressive looks that say  _ I disagree with you but I’m not going to tell you why so you can’t blame me when it goes wrong _ that even Sakusa of the national team, resident passive-aggresive look giver, would’ve been outshone.

“Oh, so it’s a  _ we _ now.” Iwaizumi laughs airily. “You  _ both _ think this is not okay.”

“We don’t-,” Matsukawa interjects, “-think this is not okay, per se, we’re just making sure you’re okay with all of this. And if you are, we’ll shut up, isn’t that right,” he jabs Hanamaki in the rib, then continues, “Makki?”

Iwaizumi gives them an unimpressed look. “Of course I’m sure, I said yes to him, didn’t I? Do I look like the kind of person to say yes if I wasn’t completely sure? Then leave people in shambles after successfully scamming them out of their emotions?” 

The sound that follows from him is probably best described as a laugh, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like one. It is everything anxiety inducing rolled up into one; a boiling kettle, fingernails on a chalkboard, shrill noises from an amateur violinist.

There is a name that hangs in the air, like a ticking bomb. Whoever reaches it first gets to throw it away, and be spared from the explosion. Iwaizumi sips his coffee helplessly. He feels like he’s in a comedic cartoon show, watching two people juggling the grenade before hurling it at him in full blast. 

But still, watching a bomb come your way does not mean it hurts any less when it goes up in flames.

“Are you going to invite Oikawa to the wedding?” with a chagrined expression, Hanamaki asks. 

Iwaizumi spits out his drink. He decides he isn’t sorry. “Hanamaki, what the fuck,” he says angrily.

“Iwaizumi what the fuck,” Hanamaki replies, furiously dabbing at the coffee stain that looks like is there to stay.

Among other things to stay, unsolicited reminders of one Oikawa Tooru.


	4. mia and sebastian's theme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we begin to swap povs within chapters. stay vigilant, or something i guess <(￣︶￣)>

oikawa tooru.

In Argentina, Oikawa wins game after game.

He sets one beautiful spike after another, for one brilliant spiker after another. Medals get slung over his neck, high five and cheers are exchanged. This is still volleyball, after all, but the cheers that rain down on him feels more like routine than joy if he’s not being careful. There is something missing, but names have power. Oikawa doesn’t want to give it a name, speak it into existence.

Today, he celebrates another win.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us for the celebration?” His answer has not once changed over years, but his teammates still ask, out of courtesy. A tilt of the head, a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes, and there, they have Oikawa’s answer.

“Sorry, not today.”

The apology goes beyond not joining them for a celebration. His teammates give him a rueful but knowing smile. “We know. Doesn’t hurt to try, though.”

The train ride home is peaceful. The orange rays of the sun setting filters in on the empty seat next to his, and the train simply flies over the city. Oikawa watches the buildings and people soar by, and it feels like he’s looking into miniature figures and buildings from outside a snow globe, like looking at something beautiful but untouchable. It is lit with life, it is shining and dazzling and golden, but is not his to settle down.

After a brisk shower, he puts on some music, and sinks into his couch. Repeat them enough times, and you’ll have habits become rituals. Play volleyball. Win. Come home to solitude. Seek solace in books and music, and volleyball that will follow the next morning. Play more volleyball. Repeat.

Oikawa stares vacantly at the bookshelf in front of him. He lets his mind wander as his eyes scan the spines of the walls of text etched upon the spines of his books that have been worn out over the years, a flurry of Spanish, English and Japanese.

_ Does it really not hurt to try, though? _ Oikawa cannot help but wonder.  _ Where does one draw the line between a worthwhile pursuit, and one that will only lead to doom? If there is even one hint of destruction that awaits you at the very end of the line, is it really worth it to try, to set yourself up for the demise that follows?  _ He stands up and picks a book off his shelf at random.

There is never a point to dwelling. He had made that clear enough back then, and he wasn’t going to go back on this now, not when the damage has already been done, anyway. He tries to read, but Shouyou’s words ring in his head.

In his memories, Hinata Shouyou sends him off with a determined look in his eyes. It only takes one look to know that he means his every word, and he is moving along to run after volleyball and see where it leads him, and eventually a boy by the name of Kageyama Tobio.

_ “I think, it’s worth a try if you really do love him, y’know?” _ the image in his head says. It makes Oikawa want to drop every fear that has had him by the clutches to believe in him, believe in what this could be, to think of a name that he has been too terrified to put to his lips for years.

From the other end of the room, someone sings, though the speakers could never do the real voice justice. His voice flutters over Oikawa’s dining table, tiny kitchen and books, all the way into his heart.

The same page of the book he’s been trying to read has been open for far too long to leave room for any lies that say otherwise. He closes the book — there’s no point lying to himself that he’s going to get anything remotely productive done tonight, considering how he has already read the same line five times, and has still not managed to retain anything.

Oikawa switches the lights off.

Briefly, he considers turning the music off too, but in the end he only turns the volume down by a fraction. This is a game night, after all. He’s entitled to a night of relaxation, not chained to the concept of having to fill every second with the gimmick of productivity, dressed in the form of analysing gameplays and books.

He bids the world goodnight.

(There’s no point lying to himself that the track he puts on loop is simply for company either, he supposes.)

* * *

hanamaki takahiro.

“You’re not going to tell Oikawa,” Matsukawa tells Hanamaki. He wears the same default expression of blankness. Aloofness. Indifference. But Hanamaki has known him long enough to know that there is more to it than what meets the eye. It’s only a question of how much he shows, and how much he does not.

Hanamaki is crouched over his computer at the dinner table they share, more of a dinner table in name than in purpose. Rather than dishes, it is more often music sheets that are scattered across it. Matsukawa leans forward over his shoulders to look at him. He wears a black T-shirt over black shorts, as if already wearing black all day at his day job wasn’t enough.

“What?” he shrinks back defensively, trying to stretch out the distance between them.

“You’re not going to tell Oikawa about Iwaizumi’s engagement.” A statement.

“Of course I’m not, what do you take me for?” he asks, dumbfound. “Where would I go to look for him anyway?” His brows furrow.

Oikawa Tooru of San Juan Athletico, who everyone knows, glimmers so bright on the other end of the pacific ocean that his rays easily reach, even if you don’t go looking. He shimmers far off into the distance, an unreachable dream.

But this is not  _ the _ Oikawa Tooru of San Juan Athletico they are talking about. This is their Oikawa, Seijoh volleyball club alumni, the same person who does things like walk into rooms and immediately forgets what he went inside to get, the Oikawa who would spend twenty minutes picking out capsicums from his omelette, yet someone whose passion and drive was something anyone who had witnessed could respect. This is Hanamaki’s friend they’re talking about. This is someone who also shimmers far off into the distance, but instead of a blinding light, it is a warm, inviting glow.

He knows where to go if he wants to try, but maybe he doesn’t. Maybe things do not need explanations beyond what he already knows.

“Who knows? You were always closer with him, after all.” Matsukawa steps back, studying Hanamaki.

“If Oikawa wanted to know, there is nothing stopping him from finding out. He knows where to find us, where to find Iwaizumi. I’m not going to tell him. I’m neither stupid nor a homewrecker.”

The look on Matsukawa’s face is forlorn. Hanamaki wonders what that means. “I know,” he replies, lips pursed into a grim line. “I just wish things could have gone better than they did, sometimes.” Walking off, his voice reverberating in the hallways. “There are things you don’t see when you’re too close to the situation. There are words you don’t think to say because you’re too far into the picture to easily see the gaps in it.”

Hanamaki clicks his tongue. “Now you’re just trying to be cryptid.”

“Maybe.” Matsukawa gives him a wave of the hand. “Aren’t you working on some new songs for the band? You can go on. Sorry for interrupting your sacred thought process.” He drops the cryptidness, and Hanamaki lets out a sigh in relief. 

The notes on Hanamaki’s computer screen stare at him, clusters of black against white that merges into a stream of harmonies. He stares back at them, wondering if they would betray his feelings, if anyone took the time to read deeply into every chord, every note. He wonders if people will see beyond these notes, and see the melancholy of watching a friend land himself in a future that simply did not feel right, see the sorrow of a lost friend who he could no longer call one, and the yearning buried deep in the confines of these grey walls and sofa creases and laughter over dinner for someone he couldn’t have.

_ There are things you don’t see when you’re too close to the situation. There are words you don’t think to say because you’re too far into the picture to easily see the gaps in it. _

_ Dear Issei _ , he thinks, a name that he only dares to indulge within thoughts that he doesn’t vocalise,  _ you are one to talk. _


	5. take on me.

oikawa tooru.

On the list of ‘people in Oikawa’s past who has left behind without a further thought of remorse who might contact him against his will to cut people out of his life’, Hinata Shouyou ranks pretty high. Yet, when compared to an objective scale of probability, chances of Hinata calling him up at the ass crack of dawn because he has no concept of time zones are still pretty low on a whole.

Pretty low, but not impossible.

“Oikawa-san!”

Oikawa is ready to sever ties when he’s jostled awake by the shrill ring of his ringtone, even if it’s Hinata. “It is 3am, Hinata Shouyou. If this is not important I-”

“Iwaizumi-san is getting married.”

It is indeed 3am, crack ass of dawn in Argentina. This is why Oikawa listens to this and decides he does not understand what is going on, and therefore Hinata Shouyou is certainly speaking gibberish. Iwaizumi? Married?

“Is this an elaborate prank?” He settles on the first logical conclusion he can find among the absurdity of it all. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“No.” Oikawa hears him inhale slowly. Then exhale. “Iwaizumi-san is getting married.”

Oikawa sits up on his bed and thinks about all of this in silence. He conjures a list in his head, of what is real and what is not. Shouyou is on the other end of the phone right now, all the way in Japan. He is being woken up at 3am to be told that someone with a name that he has erased from his mind and then rewritten far too many times to pass off as normal is getting married, to… who?

“To who?”

“Akaashi Keiji. He was Fukurodani’s setter in our time, though I don’t know if you know him.” Shouyou is treading very carefully, it feels like. Oikawa may be half asleep and groggy from sleep, but he can tell as much. Shouyou dances gracefully, and lays the facts out as gently as he can.

So Iwaizumi is getting married. So no one decided to tell Oikawa except for Shouyou. And now, what is he supposed to make of this, what is he supposed to interpret out of this chunk of information with gaps in his understanding that has accumulated over the years?

“Why are you telling me this?” Oikawa pinches his nose.

Shouyou answers him like it's the most obvious thing in the universe. “Because you wanted to try, didn’t you? And it’s evident that you haven’t.”

Oikawa tries to analyse the situation the best he can, but his brain simply fogs up, refusing to spit out a single coherent thought. 

_ Iwaizumi is getting married _ , it tells him. 

_ Shut up _ , he thinks.

_ The one you left behind got away. Congratulations, evil mastermind. Your plan worked. How does it feel? _

“I’m going to hang up on you,” Oikawa says after a moment. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to deal with this. Not right now.”

“Goodnight, Oikawa-san.” Shouyou says, right before the phone goes dead. Oikawa hates how he can hear the pity from him even though he can’t even see him. The image is very clear; a gentle smile, but a clear tenderness in those brown eyes of his that shines of sorrow and sympathy.

Oikawa bids the universe good night once more, but sleep no longer comes at him easily. Instead, fleeting memories come waltzing into his head. There is a ‘do not disturb’ sign that Oikawa has hung up eight years ago, preciously guarding his heart from the memories he once (and maybe still) considers his most precious, but the doors swings open regardless, and in come Iwaizumi’s laughter, Iwaizumi’s terrible nicknames, fireworks with Iwaizumi, arms draped across chests, trails of kisses around the arm but oh,  _ say, Iwa-chan, what if we break up? _

Memories rain down on him, and Oikawa feels like he’s suffocating from whatever this ugly feeling was. Jealousy? Sorrow? Guilt? It didn’t feel possible to attach a name to it. He only knew he wouldn’t wish this one anyone.

_ Oh? _ A voice in his head says.  _ You wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but imagine what you did to Hajime back then. Imagine what you did to your own Iwa-chan. _

“You said we’re gonna build a kingdom, so we’re gonna train a whole army of first rate soldiers, and then we’re gonna take Ushijima down, together,” Iwaizumi, aged 15, had told him.

_ But oh, your kingdom buckled on you when it mattered the most, didn’t it? _

“Idiot, when I said we’re going to grab breakfast for everyone before training camp starts, I didn’t expect you to drag me up at 6am to buy a mountain of milk bread,” Iwaizumi, aged 18, had given Oikawa the biggest scowl he could muster after 6 hours of sleep, yet refused to give Oikawa even one of the three plastic bags full of milk bread that he was holding.

_ You like to project your needs onto everybody, don’t you? Did you project your fears onto him and convince yourself that he wanted to break up with you even when he very clearly did not, too? _

“Crappy guy, we need to talk,” Iwaizumi, also aged 18, had told him when they broke up for the first time, the image of bloodshot eyes still seared into the back of Oikawa's mind. He wonders if that was what he looked like after he had seen the letter.

_ But oh, it was you who left the first time, who left for the many times after the first. If you did that to him once, and then roped him back into thinking it was all fine later, do you expect it to hurt any less? Don’t be naive. _ The voice in his head laughs, and it sinks a dagger into Oikawa’s heart.

“I wrote you a song,” Oikawa remembers Iwaizumi telling him, not once, not twice, but far too many to count over the years that has their shadows and laughter and tears lurking within.

_ He wrote you so many songs, and all you wrote him was a letter. Now he won’t even send you a wedding invitation. Fitting, right? _

“Oikawa-san.” Hinata Shouyou’s voice sounds in his head, clear as day. “Iwaizumi-san is getting married.”

“Huh,” Oikawa whispers to himself. “I fucked up big time, didn’t I?”

He starts to chuckle, soft and airy, but it slowly builds up and crescendos, until he’s throwing himself back and forth, shaking from the laughter. It’s not until he tastes salt does he realise he’s crying too.

* * *

iwaizumi hajime.

Iwaizumi is an advocate of picking up all the phone calls that come his way.

There are people out there in the universe who don’t accept calls from numbers that are not from their contacts. To Iwaizumi, these people are cryptids who he does not understand. There could be emergencies. There could be new chances. But then again, Iwaizumi is also a huge advocate of free will. People can do whatever they like, as long as it does not negatively affect him.

Today, he thinks these people might have been onto something.

“Hello?” He’s smiling when he speaks into the phone, curious. Unsaved numbers are about opportunities, about how two people who did not have anything to do with each other a second before, but are now engaging in conversation. It’s fate, Iwaizumi likes to think of it as such, but his face scrunches up in horror once he realises who it is on the other end of the phone.

It is fate indeed. Fates playing a joke on him, one more cruel than funny.

“So, I know we haven’t talked in like, eight years, and that things ended pretty badly between us but what the fuck do you mean you’re engaged to be married?”

_ Oh. Boy.  _ His heart sinks.  _ Oikawa. Oikawa Tooru. _

Over the years, he has committed himself to diminishing the damage that has been done. He thinks he has succeeded, or at least, he thought so. And then here he is, just when Iwaizumi is almost sure he’s moved on, and this voice still sends stabs to his heart anyway.

_ Say, Iwa-chan, what if we- _

_ Stop _ , he tells himself.  _ Stop _ , before this can go on any further. Iwaizumi thinks about how ludicrous this whole situation is, and in spite of himself, he laughs.

“What do you want, Oikawa?”

God knows how many times he’s imagined this very same scenario. Oikawa Tooru appears after he leaves. Oikawa Tooru decides to stop running away from whatever it is that he is terrified of, and try. Oikawa Tooru stops shrinking away before even trying, being so  _ terrified of the _ concept of trying itself. He has imagined this too many times. He has hoped. He has been disappointed. He has given up. And the moment finds him. Of course it’s downright hilarious, why wouldn’t it be? “You ran off to god knows where-”

“-Argentina. I told you in the letter.”

“You ran off to  _ a place I can’t be bothered to remember _ -” Iwaizumi is an advocate of truth, and he thinks even the most honest people deserve to lie sometimes. It’s for self defence, he tells himself. That justifies it. He’s stupid enough to let himself be cut once, twice, by the same blade, the very one he can see Oikawa wielding even though he’s across an ocean, on the other end of this phone, but he refuses to stupid enough to let himself be cut a third time. “-And now that you hear I’m getting married you suddenly decide I exist?”

“Iwa-” Iwaizumi hears the halt in his sentence.  _ Don’t say Iwa-chan _ , he thinks.  _ Don’t you dare say Iwa-chan _ . “-izumi, you’re the one getting  _ married _ , I can’t believe you hadn’t even told me and-”

_ Oh, to hell with it _ , Iwaizumi thinks.  _ Two can play at this game. _

“Fucking hell, Oikawa.” Iwaizumi is not who he was. He’s armed to the teeth now, with weapons that he can manifest and hide at will. He swings at Oikawa with the intention to make it hurt. “What was I supposed to do, sit here and cry about you for eight years, eighteen years, then eighty? So  _ you _ get to ramble about your fears, you get to chase them, and I’m not allowed to move on?”

He swings his sword. Oikawa dodges, but he’s no match for the fury and bitterness in Iwaizumi, a fire he’s stoked and put out and lit against once more over the years in his heart. There is a part of him that will always be the colour of starless night skies, scorched and charred.

“Iwaizumi, that’s not what I meant-” Oikawa says, but Iwaizumi is pretty sure at this point, he no longer wants to know what Oikawa means, nor what he has to say.

“Please leave me alone, Oikawa. Let me live,” he says.  _ It took almost everything to repair the damage you did, you selfish asshole. Please don’t stomp out what there is left of me _ , he thinks, but does not dare to say.

Before he can let himself go down this path again, he hangs up. Iwaizumi is an advocate of many things, but he curses himself for letting all of the things he stands for down when Oikawa comes into the picture.

_ It is always the people who tell you they will stand for you who let you down, huh? _ He wonders.


	6. a lovely night.

hanamaki takahiro.

Hanamaki Takahiro considers himself the epitome of calm.

He's dealt with a terrible three years of watching the captain and vice captain of his high school volleyball team fall in and out of love for each other, plus a fair share of both sides coming to him and whining about their life problems when they are together, then relationship problems when they aren't.

He's been through Iwaizumi’s indecisive phase of wanting to be an athletic trainer, form a band, then neither because they both remind him of one Oikawa Tooru, then both, because he one day decided Oikawa does not have the right to dictate what he does and what he doesn’t do with his life, because he is a strong, independent young man like that.

He's managed to keep his calmness even around Matsukawa, who he’s fallen head over heels for when he was eighteen, then moved in with him, swearing that he’ll never let what happened between Oikawa and Iwaizumi repeat itself among them. Matsukawa has always been in the picture, and Hanamaki is largely grateful to him for keeping his sanity intact as he manuevered the highs and lows of his friends’ lives, that all seemed to be no short of excitement.

When Oikawa takes himself out of the picture, Hanamaki thinks about where this leaves him. He fails to come up with an answer. Oikawa flamboyantly flounced into his life, created an Oikawa shaped hole in his heart that was equal parts annoying yet endearing, then tiptoed away. He came into his life, bringing all kinds of hope and faith for everything devastatingly dazzling to come, and then had everyone around him believe in it as much as him.

Then vanished. No prior notice. Not even a goodbye. Only a text that says “I’m sorry”.

This is the age of social media.

If one willed it as much, this is the age of never losing contact with one's second cousin twice removed, but Hanamaki takes too long to process the (metaphorical) loss of Oikawa. Watching the aftereffects of the unannounced departure and the toll it takes on Iwaizumi, the process of Hanamaki’s healing is slowed down further. The image simply doesn’t add up, after all. What happened to all the confidence that hung on Oikawa’s lips? If all of those could be discarded as easily as this, then how much of the Oikawa Tooru that he displayed was real, and how much of it was simply a shadow of a coward, shrouded in a cloak of pretense and fear?

The more he thinks about it, the more Hanamaki solidifies two things he knows. One, he is truly the epitome of calm, to have dealt with so much shit over the past years, and have turned out fine. Two, he is also a very good friend.

Hanamaki is forced to confront these truths he knows about himself when Oikawa appears on his doorstep the same way he left — unannounced.

There is a lot of gaping and sheepish looks involved. There is also some marvelling on his end, because of how some things simply never change.

“Uh,” Oikawa says, red-faced. “Hi?”

He fumbles for something to say, because here is Oikawa Tooru, devastatingly baffling as always. “What the fuck?” is what he goes for in the end.

 _At least he has the decency to look ashamed_ , Hanamaki thinks. _Self awareness is a good virtue to have._

“You better have a drop dead gorgeous excuse for what you have been up to, and a very good explanation for what unsound part of you thought it was appropriate to do what you did.”

He drags Oikawa into the house, who raises his eyebrows at the sight of Matsukawa on their couch.

No longer under the murky darkness of the streets, Hanamaki takes a good look at Oikawa, someone who went from bratty teammate to bratty captain to bratty good friend to … nothing, apparently. His shoulders have become broader since Hanamaki last saw him, but that was expected. Oikawa looked radiant as he remembered, shining with a kind of confidence and self-assuredness only Oikawa could pull off. Yet, there is this haggled look in his eyes, a darkness that stood out among the rest of his features that were anything but.

Oikawa’s looks are not all Hanamaki notices. He also notices the red suitcase that he dragged along by his side. 

“Good evening, Mattsun,” Oikawa chirps. If Oikawa is surprised to find the two of them living together, he doesn’t show it.

“Well.” Matsukawa gives Hanamaki a questioning look. Hanamaki only shrugs. “What a surprise it is, huh. What brings you here on this fine day?”

Hanamaki has a feeling he already knows what Oikawa is here for, watching the tomato red suitcase that followed Oikawa, and the bags stacked neatly atop. The suitcase sticked out among the dull tones of cream and beige of their furniture, very attention grabbing, like the owner himself.

Hanamaki decides he needs to assert dominance, and starts to speak before Oikawa can.

“Yes, we have a spare room. No, you haven’t convinced us to let you stay the night.” He stares. “You haven’t gained the right.”

He half expects every trace of the Oikawa he knows to be wrung out from him over his years of absence, but once Oikawa pouts, he banishes the thought.

“Makkiiii,” he wails. If he's trying to earn any sympathy from Hanamaki with his puppy eyes that have only gotten more accentuated over the years, he is not succeeding. Instead, he does get a whack on the head by Hanamaki, the weapon being some stray sport magazines laid out on the counter.

“Ow, what was that for-”

“There’s more of where that came from if you don’t start to explain yourself.” Hanamaki drops into the empty seat next to Matsukawa, and gestures for Oikawa to take the one opposite them. With a sigh, Oikawa obliges, abandoning his tomato red suitcase by the door.

“I heard he’s getting married,” Oikawa starts. 

Hanamaki gives Matsukawa a side glance, only to receive a shrug in return that meant ‘no, I didn’t tell him, I don’t know who did it either’.

“It was Hinata Shouyou from Karasuno, actually.” 

He dives into his tale of volleyball in the Argentinian league, Brazil, and then more volleyball in the Argentinian league.

“So,” Oikawa says, when he finally runs out of words. “I am here now.”

Silence slips into the room. Hanamaki lets it sink in, not knowing how to react. What do people do when someone who they expected to walk into the room any second for eight years and yell “surprise! It was all an elaborate prank!” never does, and then show up again when everyone has already found ways to establish a balance even with the gaping hole, sending the equilibrium into shreds?

But Hanamaki is a calm person. He doesn't get carried away with feelings even when dealing with the likes of Oikawa. All he has to do right now is to do what he has been doing all along. Assess the situation, clear the paths, choose the most obvious solution. Take one step. Then another.

“And indeed you are,” he tells Oikawa. “So, what do you want? To call off the wedding because you think you still have dibs over Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa looks pained. “No, of course not, I can’t do that, I would never.”

Hanamaki tries to wrap his head around all of this, but he fails. Either nothing about this makes sense, or he’s just too obsessed about the memory of someone who was here eight years ago, and left a shell of who he was behind, right now, sitting on his couch. Matsukawa, who must have sensed the frustration in him, reaches out for his hand. He gives Hanamaki’s hand a gentle squeeze when their fingers tangle.

“He wants to apologise. I think,” Matsukawa says. “To understand, maybe. To be friends again.”

If Hanamaki is the calm one, Matsukawa is the perceptive one. Oikawa’s face falls into a resigned expression, and Hanamaki knows he’s got it right.

“Fine, then.” Hanamaki has been shuffling around uneasily in his seat for the entirety of the duration Oikawa has been here, crossing his arms, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them. “So why come to us? Why not straight up go to Iwaizumi and redeem yourself?”

“He’s getting married, hell. I can’t just barge into his house and go ‘Hi! It’s your unhinged ex-boyfriend who has vanished off the charts of your life for the past eight years, who’s now back to harass you until you make amendments with him!’, can I?” Oikawa gives them a look in equal parts desolate and exasperated. His tone softens. “We were best friends. It’s not about him getting married, it’s about the stinging feelings knowing your best friend no longer considers you anyone of significance, not even enough to tell you about his wedding.”

Matsukawa doesn’t seem to sympathise. “That’s kind of rich, coming from you.”

“I know, right? Fuck,” Oikawa groans. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Oh, nice,” Matsukawa looks amused. “At least you’re still self aware.”

Self awareness is a good virtue to have. Hanamaki commends him once more.

There is still something about this that has never sat well with Hanamaki. He wants to leap out to believe the friend, the pillar of support he has clung on to, now that he’s back. But at the back of his mind, there is a question that has haunted him for the past eight years.

“It was never about leaving Iwaizumi behind to chase your dreams, was it? You were just out there being a coward, and finally decided you only had the courage to chase after volleyball. But had you lost Iwaizumi after you let yourself sink deeper, you wouldn’t have survived, right?”

Matsukawa only hums. He seems surprised that Hanamaki would even have the courage to just ask Oikawa like this, with nothing but the flat out truth. But Hanamaki thinks he deserves a reasoning before he can move on, and this is a question that changes everything. This is where the line is drawn between an Oikawa that matched the one he knew in his head, and one who is a stranger, too far off the charts for him to save.

 _Please say right_ , Hanamaki thinks. _Please let me know I wasn’t wrong in thinking of you as the friend and captain I trust in completely, even after all these years._

“Y-yeah,” Oikawa mumbles, and Hanamaki’s heart sinks in relief. “I didn’t know what to do, and it all made so much sense back then to simply run before the damage could be done. It’s kind of a crap excuse, I know, I’m not going to make you both hear more of it than you have to anymore.” He presses his palms together in a praying motion. “So I need someone to pull strings for me to make amends, preferably someone who Iwa-chan won’t kill. A place to stay. Please?”

“You’re here to freeload,” Hanamaki deadpans.

“I’ll pay you both rent,” Oikawa chirps.

“It’s Iwaizumi to you now, not Iwa-chan, remember?”

Oikawa’s expression turns sour, but he nods. He looks at Hanamaki, as does Matsukawa. They only needed a word from him.

Matsukawa prods. “How are you here anyway, don’t you have contracts to sign to be on whatever team you’re on?”

“Yeah what if your team sends someone over to hunt us down declaring that we kidnapped their starting setter or something.”

“They won’t,” Oikawa says, finality in his tone. “I quit.”

There’s silence, then a chorus of loud “WHAT?”s from them both. 

“So,” Matsukawa looks at him in awe. “You ditched us all only to come back with a decision like this? Are you completely fucking insane, Oikawa?”

“I think he may be,” Hanamaki snorts. 

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “I’m not completely hopeless yet, you know? I’ll probably find a team here to join, join the Japan League, but before that I want to sort out my priorities in life, and that involves Iwaizumi, you both, and everything else I left behind.”

He thinks about it, how Oikawa may never be the one who successfully cheers him up, but is always the first to notice whenever there’s something that bugs Hanamaki. He thinks of the many firework shows in the summer with the Seijoh team, and how they laughed until their ribs hurt, until their lungs felt like they were going to give in on him. He thinks of Oikawa flaunting that ridiculous nickname with that horribly affected voice, going Makki this Makki that, and his heart twinges. Maybe he just misses his friend, he realises.

Oikawa Tooru may be a selfish bastard who fears no man, no god, but he’s _their_ selfish bastard.

He drops his head into his hands, and sighs. “Fucking fine. If Iwaizumi buries you I’m not digging you out.”

Through the gaps between his fingers, he sees the first genuine smile of the day from Oikawa.

* * *

iwaizumi hajime.

Secrets make Iwaizumi uneasy.

Secrets are ticking bombs that lurk in corners, only to explode in your face when you’re wrapped in the comfortable pretense of a euphoric world. They are shades casted over one’s eyes, painting the world to appear differently from how everyone else sees it. Iwaizumi sees secrets as the beginning of decay, a single drop of black that dyes the entire cup of water grey.

He hadn’t meant to hide Oikawa’s phone call from Akaashi, it just never felt like the right time to tell him. He tries to be cautious, to not slip up and show signs of abnormality so he doesn’t have to worry Akaashi with something as insignificant as this.

Insignificant, that is what all of this is.

A shard of his past, one that does not tie in to him at the present. Akaashi doesn’t need to worry about something as small as this. Akaashi doesn’t need to worry about _him_.

Iwaizumi thinks it is very frustrating that he spends his day worrying about how to not worry Akaashi, only to have Akaashi ask what it was that was bothering him. Go figure.

“Something’s troubling you.”

“What?” Iwaizumi asks. Akaashi’s gaze on him is steady, but it is also gentle. Iwaizumi doesn’t know why he’s averting them, instead fixating his gaze on the tofu. “How did you know?” 

“Hajime, you’re asking someone who you’re going to marry.”

 _He’s right_ , Iwaizumi thinks. Trust Akaashi to have him checkmated in one go.

“Oikawa called the other day,” Iwaizumi says hesitantly, slowly letting his gaze trail upward to assess what Akaashi looks like. 

Akaashi looks like he always has. Calm and collected. “Oh,” he says between dainty bites, “that’s kind of unexpected.”

“Y-yeah, I suppose.”

“How do you feel about any of this?”

“I don’t know either, to be honest.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe some other day.” Iwaizumi lowers his head, finishing up his dinner. “I don’t even know what I need to talk about.”

Akaashi will understand. He always does, but the confirmation still calms the restless tides that have been troubling Iwaizumi for days. “You can talk to me anytime you need, you know that right?” Gently, Akaashi lays his chopsticks down on the holder.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi smiles. “I do.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know how much Akaashi knows about Oikawa Tooru and everything that he left behind.

Of course, everyone knows Japan’s pride Oikawa Tooru, brilliant setter that instilled fear in the enemy everywhere he went, but Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi’s childhood friend and first love was a whole different matter altogether.

Iwaizumi had first met Akaashi when they were simply two people trying to recover from heartbreak. They were a very sad half of what used to be two halves of a whole, left behind by someone who was looking ahead, not sideways.

 _“The last festival like this that I attended was with my ex-boyfriend,”_ Iwaizumi had told Akaashi at the time, stating facts as they are. Oikawa Tooru did not care for jazz piano fairs, but he did care for Iwaizumi who at the time was still his Iwa-chan. Life was whole and everything he could have possibly hoped for it to be, with a long stream of hope stretched out in front of him, intertwined with Oikawa, music, and volleyball.

And then Oikawa had to go and write him a very shitty letter, breaking up with him with an even shittier reason to do it, then hop the next plane to fucking Argentina.

_[Yet, even with the light you bring, the stakes are still too high for me to bear, Iwa-chan._

_I can lose anything else after a chase, but I don’t think I’m selfless enough to drop everything and dive into this deep end of loving you, letting myself even dream of a concept as utopian as a future with you, a future so far away and riddled with so many intricately laid traps where anything can go wrong at any given time._

_So, say, Iwa-chan, what if we break up?]_

Man, sometimes Iwaizumi wonders what he even saw in him in the first place. What was it that was so dazzling, that it drowned away the darkness that took form in the shape of selfishness and cowardice and everything ugly that shouldn’t be worth falling in love with?

Perhaps Iwaizumi has the answer to this, an answer that tells you about the how the sun that gets caught in his hair dyes it shades of caramel and gold, the light in his eyes when he throws himself back and forth laughing at one of Matsukawa’s bad jokes, and ferocity that drives Oikawa to pursue volleyball. Could Iwaizumi really lament? 

He supposed not.

After all, he didn’t lose to Oikawa’s love for volleyball. He didn’t lose to Oikawa’s hunger for improvement and glory. He lost to Oikawa’s fear, nothing else. If even _he_ was not enough to banish those fears from the back of Oikawa’s mind, maybe that makes it worse somehow, because then, it was never about Oikawa. It was all about him, Iwaizumi Hajime in the flesh, a subject unworthy of the attempt. 

Maybe that was everything enticing about Akaashi Keiji. Whatever Oikawa was, Akaashi wasn’t, except for the setter part. In Akaashi, Iwaizumi finds someone who will stay.

 _So how does he feel about all of this?_ Iwaizumi wonders as he loses yet another battle to Akaashi, fighting over who gets to do the dishes. He still does not have the answer, maybe he never will, but whatever this is, as long as he has Akaashi by his side, he’ll take it.

Later on, when Iwaizumi jolts awake from a nightmare, sleep does not return easily to him. But he knows he’s in safe hands when Akaashi reaches over to wrap him in his arms. Iwaizumi relaxes into the touch, simply letting the warmth flow from Akaashi’s fingertips into the back of his shirt.

“It’s alright,” Akaashi murmurs. “I’m here.”

There is comfort in trust, in tangible things laid out under the sun for everyone to see. There is comfort in an absence of hushed secrets, in straightforward truths. But there is also solace in knowing of stories untold, that may never be told, but still believing anyway.

“I know.” Iwaizumi lets himself be held. “I know.”

* * *

matsukawa issei.

Matsukawa strolls in the music store Hanamaki works at five days after Oikawa showed up on his doorstep unannounced.

For years, he’s watched Hanamaki struggle between careers. They were always too hectic, too uneventful, too stressful, too unfulfilling, always attributed to one polar, never feeling right. He’d been talking for as long as Matsukawa could remember about engineering, or biotechnology, all veering deep into the heart of STEM, but he is here now, an employee at a cosy music store, working for a cheerful old man who just wants more people to enjoy music.

The front part of the store is lined with albums, neatly arranged in alphabetical order on racks painted the colour of coffee. Matsukawa remembers coming with Hanamaki to this store many times over the years, most times to fawn over these beautifully casketed albums, carrying all these tunes and melodies. 

Then, there is the back part of the store, a heaven of musical instruments.

Whenever he thinks about his relationship with the bass, it is never quite as dramatic as his two friends’. It’s not like Iwaizumi, who’s always had a thing for music, dabbled in many instruments over time, and decided to choose the guitar. Sweet triumph over a long struggle, he likes to call it. It’s also not like Hanamaki, who has only ever been drawn to drums, and never looked back. The bass was simply the first thing that caught his attention, and _yeah_ , he decided. _Seems fun and legit enough_. It could have been anything else, but it wasn’t. Then again, perhaps there’s something equally quaint and endearing in a story like this in its own way too.

Behind the ocean of albums and Taylor Swift and amps and drum sets, is this little music studio that Hanamaki gets to use. “As long as you don’t leave the lights on and remember to lock up, you’re free to use it,” Hanamaki’s boss cheerfully tells him. Hell yeah for employee privileges. If Hanamaki gets to use it, by extension, so does Iwaizumi and Matsukawa. Another hell yeah for friendship.

Matsukawa strides into the room for band practice. Yet, one look he takes at Iwaizumi’s grin, far too dangerously sweet for it to be genuine, and he prepares to walk back out. He spots Hanamaki pretending to stare at several pieces of sheet music, even though everyone in this room knows he plays by ear. He grimaces. Then, he steps forward.

“Which one of you is it?” Iwaizumi asks.

“Which one of us what,” Matsukawa replies innocently.

“Oikawa called some time ago, and by then I had only told you both. Kunimi. Kindaichi. My parents.”

“It was Kindaichi,” Hanamaki offers immediately. 

“No way it was.” Iwaizumi is giving the two of them the sweetest smile he has seen in years. Matsukawa’s flight or fight instincts are kicking in. It was neither Hanamaki nor him, of course he knows this, but the way Iwaizumi’s eyes gleam as he scans the both of them, he almost believes one of them is guilty.

He shrugs. “How would you know?”

“Because I threatened him, and said if he dared breathe a word to Oikawa I would throttle him.”

“Maybe he told Kageyama,” Hanamaki suggests. “And Kageyama told someone else. A close acquaintance.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes glaze over as he ponders the probability of this all. When Iwaizumi sinks into his focus mode, Matsukawa feels like he can see spinning gears manifest around him.

Realisation flickers across his face. “I hate it here, oh my god. You are all betrayers.” He covers his face with both his hands, the guitar hanging off the strap on his shoulder.

Matsukawa genuinely does feel sorry for him, especially at times like this. He’s been through so much shit, but the events still keep on piling up on him. He wonders what Iwaizumi would think if he knew that said object of terror is now sleeping on his couch, and has tasked Matsukawa and Hanamaki to abduct Iwaizumi to meet him. 

_And on that note_ , he thinks, flashing a look at Hanamaki. 

“Aww, Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki begins gingerly. “Oikawa may be the most selfish person god has to offer, but I don’t think he’s a homewrecker, y’know. Maybe he’s back here to apologise, or rekindle. Something.”

Quietly, Matsukawa adds, “You were best friends, after all.” 

He gets a dirty look from Iwaizumi, who has finally found it in him to face the world again after the betrayal of one unknowing Kindaichi, one unknowing Kageyama, and one knowing Hinata. “Guess what, we’re not best friends anymore. I didn’t really get a say in the matter when he decided to ditch us all, remember?”

Iwaizumi gives the two of them a suspicious look. “Neither of you are acting like yourselves today, what the hell? Are you guys usually this defensive of him?” His eyes narrow. “Did he get in touch with you? Send you to hunt me down?”

Hanamaki opens his mouth to speak, but Matsukawa interrupts before he can. Matsukawa is, after all, the better liar. He’ll take the brunt of this when Iwaizumi finds out. “No,” he says with a blank expression. “Of course not.”

“We were just,” Hanamaki squeezes out the word, “- _concerned_ , y’know, making sure.”

“Yeah, because you both think I’m making a mistake, we established this back at the coffee shop.” Iwaizumi backs away from the two of them defensively until he’s pressed against the wall, looking like prey who’s been cornered by a pack of hungry predators. “Are any of you ever going to tell me what you have to pick about my relationship? Or are you going to be those people in group projects that leave the conversation on read and then nitpick at everything when the end product comes out?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Matsukawa waits for Hanamaki to take this one, but he doesn’t. _Smartass_ , Matsukawa thinks. 

“Well?” Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “If we’re all so set to ask all these uncomfortable questions might as well do it all the way, no? Go ahead, I’m waiting.” He wears the tone of an injured animal helplessly lashing out, and not for the first time since Oikawa’s arrival does Matsukawa reevaluate whether any of this is worth the toll it puts on his friends and himself.

“I think,” Matsukawa says, then sighs before continuing. “Do you really love him, or are you clutching at the first source that offers you a sense of security after what Oikawa did?” It takes significant effort, but he manages to keep his voice audible as he speaks.

Iwaizumi does not look as angry as Matsukawa has expected him to, but his lips harden into a straight line. “Is that what you really think of me? That I’d simply latch myself to the next best thing that comes into my life because Oikawa left?” He turns his attention to Hanamaki, sounding genuinely hurt. “Is this what you think of me too?”

“It’s not _you_ exactly that Mattsun is on about, it’s the entire situation as a whole. That’s why we’re asking you all of these things about Oikawa right now.”

Silence falls, and the three are drowned in silence again. Idly, Matsukawa’s fingers pluck at the strings of the bass before him, filling the weary atmosphere with single notes.

“This is getting depressing,” Iwaizumi mutters. “Can we stop this, and just do whatever we’re here to do? Jam session? Something?”

Hanamaki scoots over to the stool of the drum set, and starts off the intro to a new song that they haven’t put lyrics into. They let the notes break into a run, then take off. It’s beautiful as it always is, and it’s the only thing that feels salvageable among this mess of a situation.


	7. herman's habit.

hanamaki takahiro.

There is the Kübler-Ross model five stages of grief (you know this one, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) , and then you have the Oikawa Tooru five stages of grief, and it looks like this:

  1. Fly to Argentina partially to chase your dreams, partially to forget the love of your life.
  2. Call said love of your life when you find out he’s getting married, have it end as disastrously as possible.
  3. Fly back to Japan in a pursuit of friendship and whatever else you left behind.
  4. Appear on a used-to-be close friend’s doorstep, plead him (them, because apparently he’s roommates with your other close friend) to let you stay
  5. Go grocery shopping with your two close friends, get emotional about shopping at a convenience store because it looks more put together than your life is.



Before Hanamaki, is Oikawa reaching his last stage of grief. The only way to go is up. Probably.

“Are you,” Matsukawa studies him with a quizzical look on his face, “-having an existential crisis at the sight of cheese?”

Hanamaki squints. “Japanese cheese isn’t that different from Argentinian cheese, Oikawa. No need to be surprised.”

Oikawa is indeed, as Matsukawa says, having a crisis, but Hanamaki doesn’t _really_ think it’s an existential one — more of a _‘what have I done in life, why am I here now, what is my purpose’_ kind of crisis.. 

“Look at everything here,” Oikawa dolefully says, gesturing at the neatly stacked rows of cheese. “Everything here is so in _order_. They all have their places to go, roles to fulfil. If this entire place holds more order than my life does, what does that say about me?” He spins around on them. “Do you see what I’m getting at? There’s no place for me to go. Iwaizumi hates me. You both probably think I’m a selfish asshole, and are thinking of ways to kick me out. Everything is just a mess, and it’s all because I was too much of a coward.”

Matsukawa still looks amused, a twinkle in his half-lidded eyes. Hanamaki is on his own now.

He crouches to match Oikawa’s height. “Yeah, you’re right,” he begins, watching Oikawa’s frowns sink deeper. “We do think you’re annoying, but that’s always been a thing. When has it ever bothered you? Oikawa Tooru. Twenty seven. Annoying. It’s kinda like a personality thing now. Take away the annoying from you and you’d be left with nothing.”

“If it makes you feel better, we were never trying to kick you out,” Matsukawa chips in. “But if you need us to say really sappy things to you to help validate your ego here in a konbini when I’m just trying to get yoghurt, I’ll really have to reconsider the kick you out part.”

Oikawa doesn’t look convinced. “What am I going to do about all of this, god damn.” He stares back, teary-eyed. “I just want to talk to him again, to know that all’s not lost yet and I can still make this right, somehow. But he can’t even stand the sight of me, much less speak to me.” His head falls. 

Crouched on the floor of a convenience shop in his full six feet glory, Hanamaki has never seen Oikawa look smaller. He almost feels sorry for him.

“Maybe we could help?”

“Help how, unless you’re planning to practically kidnap him and sit him down, I don’t see how we could ever have a proper conversation-”

“Oikawa,” Matsukawa cuts him short.

Oikawa stares at Matsukawa, then back at Hanamaki. “You would do that?”

“Not, kidnap per se, maybe partial truths. Dinner with friends,” Hanamaki murmurs, nodding slightly.

“You would do that for me?”

“It’s better than having you breaking down when we’re trying to grocery shop, man.”

Matsukawa lends the both of them a hand each. They take it.

 _The only way to go is up_ , Hanamaki repeats to himself. _Probably._

* * *

iwaizumi hajime.

In hindsight, Iwaizumi should’ve probably realised he was walking himself into a trap.

There is too much going on. If there are more than two things happening at once, Iwaizumi's head starts to spin. In this room, there is most certainly more than two things happening at once. 

First of all, there is Oikawa Tooru (walking embodiment of charm itself, whose dazzling smile that sends half the universe swooning, other equally flattering compliments that should not be heard by the man himself), who is looking at the table cloth, the barista, the muffins on the display rack, the neon sign of the cafe that was half lit and half broken, and everything else that was not Iwaizumi Hajime.

Next, there is said Iwaizumi Hajime, who is looking at the table next to them, at a certain pair of band members and friends of many years who have just, in his words, _sent him into a wolf’s den_. His eyes flutter between Oikawa and his friends (soon to be ex-friends), but the grim expression stays with a flicker of fury that flares up when his gaze rests on Oikawa for too long.

“Well?” he eventually snaps, inviting Oikawa to look at him head on, messy hair, frightened eyes and all. “I’m here now. Congratulations, you got everything you wanted!” Every word he says drips with sarcasm, even though he’s not consciously setting out to draw blood. He bites his tongue, making an attempt to tone down the anger. He is an accomplished and mature young adult, who has gotten over a heartbreak of eight years ago. There's no need to lash out at the source of a wound from the past. 

Iwaizumi tries again. “What do you want?” he asks, but it turns out far from what he intends for it to be. He does not sound cool and collected and detached and whatever tone it was that he set out to accomplish. He sounds like he’s in pain, and the flinch that flashes across Oikawa’s face tells him he heard it too.

Vaguely, he hears Matsukawa sigh. Iwaizumi will get him back after this, he thinks.

“Tell me how you’ve been?” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi stares at him like he’s speaking nonsense, because he is. But maybe that is the beauty of it all, the absurdity in all its glory.

“You want me to tell you how I’ve been?” Iwaizumi parrots. This is ridiculous. He didn’t go through the last few years of his life telling himself he didn’t have abandonment issues, then spent more years convincing himself he did in fact have one, and eventually more trying to get over said issues he finally acknowledged was present in him, just for Oikawa to trample on the walls he built up. “Why?” It takes everything in him to keep his voice level.

Iwaizumi waits for him to speak, waits for him to drop some massively enlightening epiphany on him.

“Because I haven’t seen you in so long.”

This is not what he wants to hear.

“Oikawa.” He almost laughs at how foreign the name sounds on his tongue, and wonders if _Tooru_ would feel just about as out of place too. “Do you hear yourself now?”

_Do you hear how you’re trying too hard to instill something mundane in what is us once more, even though we clearly have moved past the point of things being redeemable in a way that catching up can heal?_

“I’m leaving,” he announces to all the sources of evil in the room, like people who you thought were friends but are all just betrayers, like ex-lovers, like the high concentration of strawberry pastries he shouldn’t have because he’s a goddamn reponsible adult who should be thinking about things like health for the long run, not the sweetness of strawberry tarts on his tongue. “This room is too condensed with evil. I refuse to be tainted by any of you.” He directs the last part at Hanamaki and Matsukawa, but he’s disappointed to find that they don’t seem very shaken.

“Iwaizumi-” Oikawa begins, almost a plea, but is cut off coldly.

“Don’t.” He stands up then casts what he hopes is a withering glare at Oikawa.

There are things that don’t really change, ever. Here he is, as close to a self-assured young adult as he’ll ever be, who is built on the beliefs and actions he has spent his days swearing by, and here before him, is a menace to this serene life he had been building, threatening to take all of this apart by the seams. He scans Oikawa’s eyes, searching for the answer to a question from eight years ago that he would have died for.

_What did I do wrong, Oikawa? Was I not enough for you to stay?_

Instead of an answer, he only sees a misty sea in Oikawa’s eyes, filled with fear.

He is a self-assured young adult now. He doesn’t have to care what the answers to that is anymore.

“Don’t,” he repeats once more for good measure, even though he’s not sure if he’s talking to Oikawa orhimself at this point.

“Don’t,” he says a third time, before he strides past the table and Oikawa’s deflated figure. He’s tired, of this, of everything. Oikawa isn’t the only one who can remove himself from a situation whenever it suits him.

* * *

akaashi keiji.

Watching this version of Iwaizumi, Akaashi can only wonder how long it’s been since he last saw him like this — a person who dedicates more than half of his energy into the wellbeing for other people (his athletes, his fans on Twitter who’d simply had a bad day, even hazards like Miya Atsumu of the national team) — taken apart by piece, all while knowing there is nothing that can be done for him.

It’s the alcohol that’s the first sign of danger. To say Akaashi was surprised upon seeing Iwaizumi stumble home mostly drunk, barely able to string a single coherent sentence together is probably an understatement. 

Iwaizumi never drinks. He prides himself on always having a functioning mind should anyone ever need him. Here is Iwaizumi’s pride, wanting to serve in any way he can. Akaashi wonders what could have possibly possessed him to seek out solace in such methods, unconventional for Iwaizumi. Grimly, he makes a note to ask Iwaizumi’s friends in a moment. 

For now, he doesn’t push it. Gently, he helps Iwaizumi in, listening to the string of incomprehensible rambling that leaves his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi tells him weakly, even though Akaashi isn't sure what he’s apologising for. There’s an unfocused look in his eyes as he makes way for the couch, an arm draped over Akaashi’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay.” Because it is. It’s always okay when it’s Iwaizumi, because Akaashi knows he’d never do anything to hurt people out of things like sheer spite. “It’s okay,” he repeats, even though Iwaizumi doesn’t look like he’s listening to him.

“I wish it didn't hurt so much,” Iwaizumi says, lying on the couch with half closed eyes. He’s only about twenty percent still consciously aware about everything going on at this point, but the way his voice drips with unmasked pain still sends Akaashi’s gut twisting into knots.

Akaashi already has a glass of water that he sets by the coffee table for him. He considers voicing his hunches to get a confirmation, but he decides against it. He trusts Iwaizumi. It wouldn’t be fair to make him voice anything he isn’t ready to tell Akaashi.

So here he sits in silence, doing what he has always done best— provide support. He cannot manipulate the winds and the thunderstorms at the flick of a wrist, at upturned lips that charm the souls out of every mortal to grace these lands. Akaashi Keiji is not the exception, but he can be what comes after. He can be the pillars that looms tall, holding the palace in place even after harsh storms and the gales that accompany them; the one to pick up the fragments and join them back with care after the charming smiles wedges cracks into the hearts of these souls who have loved.

“It’s okay, Hajime,” he tells him, because it is. Soon, Iwaizumi will go back to being the person he was, strong and caring, loving the world with a kind of irreplaceable intensity. This is the very least Akaashi can do for him now.

* * *

oikawa tooru.

There is simply something about the longing and yearning that makes the prospect of things you simply cannot have appealing.

He spends the years from his younger years fawning over the concept of Iwaizumi, someone who was so self-assured in all the ways Oikawa wasn’t. This adoration soon turned into something more than that, when it accompanied the bittersweet-ness of stolen glances he didn’t dare to let linger, of fingers and shoulders that brush, then hastily pulled away. The grass is always greener on the other side. People you cannot have always become the people who you see at the back of your eyelids whenever you close your eyes.

In Argentina, Oikawa spends so much time hovering between thinking about everything he left behind and forcing himself to banish these thoughts that’ll crumble everything he has worked for. After all, there are things that he loves very much, enough for him to push away the shadow of a weaker and younger version of himself, so easily paralysed by the concept of losing things that he deemed even the chase too painful to try. There is volleyball, because he knows he is destined to live life chasing after a ball on a court of twelve, six on each side. 

There are things that Oikawa knows he would dedicate his life to chasing when he was eighteen, like volleyball. And then there are things that Oikawa wished he knew were also worth chasing. Worth the fall that might come after soaring too close to danger, worth the pain only for the moments of high.

_“You’ll be that annoying guy who chases volleyball forever.”_

Oikawa wonders about so many things in his years away. How was his parents doing now that the nuisance that had been a constant in their lives vanished off to a place across the globe? How was his sister and Takeru? How were Kunimi and Kindaichi, were they still playing volleyball? 

What would it have been like if he never left, or what would it have been like if he had given everyone a proper goodbye before leaving, instead of being scared, instead of being _scared_ like he always seems to be, even when he doesn’t know of _what_ , exactly. What would it have been like if he did not call it quits with Iwaizumi, did not set out with a pen on a piece of paper, then create, weaving words from nothing, but setting out to destroy? There were so many routes he could have taken, so many options he could’ve easily chosen to go down, but yet, here he is, yet again lost in the dreams of what _were_ , what _weren’t_ , and what _could’ve been_.

There were so many times he could have picked up the phone and called over the years.

There were so many ties he ungracefully severed, giving people on the other end no other choice. Not Matsukawa, his trusty source of advice, not Hanamaki, who understood the words he didn’t say as much as the words he did say, and not Iwaizumi, for who Oikawa should have given the world, but only left a letter for him to find.

Matsukawa sits down on the space left empty next to Oikawa, on the steps of the sliding door that overlooked the streets of night time, the usually neon lights that lit the street up dulled by the rain that fell. 

“Please don’t say sorry,” Oikawa grumbles, the weight of everything finally sinking in. “You wouldn’t have meant it.”

“You’re absolutely right, I wouldn’t have meant it, but I’d have said it anyway.”

“What was it like, Mattsun?” Oikawa laughs, the sounds of his laughter echoing off the walls of the flat, then dissipates with the pitter-patter of the rain. 

“What was what like?”

“When I left.”

Here is a question that has haunted him in his sleep. He thinks he has the answer, even though he was never sure if he had the courage to learn the truth. But Oikawa Tooru is tired of being terrified all the goddamn time. He’s tired of running, of being scared. He wants to try, because while it is not the miraculous solution to all the problems that exist, it is a first step.

Matsukawa mulls this over for a moment, then speaks, slowly. “It was kinda hell for everyone. Especially him.”

The truth. It hits Oikawa hard, even though he’s been preparing for it, but he has set out with determination to learn it, no matter how hard it can be. This time, Oikawa is not going to run.

“Tell me more.”

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow, and studies him, as if he’s evaluating how much is an appropriate amount to tell Oikawa.

“He didn’t understand why. I don’t think he spoke to anyone for a month. You know Iwaizumi. That’s not the kind of thing he would do, let everyone worry about him.”

This was a direct jab, and Oikawa knew it. He was the selfish one who readily put his feelings before others’, not Iwaizumi, never Iwaizumi.

“He stopped singing. Or playing anything for very long after that. He said he couldn’t, and everything painfully reminded him of you. Some times, in the middle of the night, he’d call me. Or Hanamaki. And everytime, he’d sound like he hadn’t slept a wink in days. He mentioned nightmares, and it was mostly some variation of you leaving, one more gruesome after the other.”

At this, Oikawa could feel a bit of the fury that built up in the uneveness of Matsukawa’s voice. It smoothed over, disappearing as fast as it had appeared, but it didn’t take an expert to tell what the dark look in his eyes meant.

“Have you _ever_ seen Iwaizumi like that, Oikawa?” Matsukawa laughs, cold and harsh. “Have you ever seen our Iwaizumi, so composed and self-assured all the time, come undone before your very eyes; everything he has stood for, all his hopes and beliefs built up across the years self-destructing within the span of days?”

The rain seems to fall heavier, dampening the already depressing atmosphere. Oikawa takes it all in, the aftermath that he didn’t stay around long enough to watch.

He speaks, barely a whisper against the pouring rain. “What about Makki, what about you, then?”

“Makki was shocked. It didn’t feel like something you, of all people, would have done. It was taboo to even mention your name for so long, it almost felt like you’ve died. And me, I was here watching all of my friends fall apart, it was no time to be mourning.”

“I’m sorry.”

Matsukawa stuns, tilting his head to look at him with a surprised look. He simply looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, lips pursed together grimly.

“I mean it,” Oikawa mumbles.

Matsukawa sighs. “It’s okay. I forgived you long ago, anyway.”

“Really?” This time, it is Oikawa who’s surprised, words falling over each other. “W-why? You never got an explanation from me, not a word, no contact, nothing. Only a mess I left you with.”

“Because while you’re kind of a self-centered asshole, you’re still my friend. Which means if you pull this kind of shit again, I’m going to trek across the world and bring a guillotine with me.”

“...fair enough.”

“Sometime after you left, he met Akaashi from some mutual friends, and it took time but we could all see him recovering from-” he hesitates, “-you.”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything. He gives him only a low hum in response. What was he supposed to say, anyway?

“Akaashi is pretty good for Iwaizumi,” Matsukawa quietly adds. “Iwaizumi is the kind of person who’s always looking after other people, who’s always so strong that sometimes you forget he’s only human. He’ll easily wear himself out to nothing for others. When you realise that whatever remains of him are mostly fragmented shards and pieces, and it’ll be too much of a damage to put back completely. Akaashi is kind of like that too. So they watch out for each other and it balances out.”

Matsukawa has never been someone easy to read. He prattles on about daily life like it’s nothing so much, that only people who have put enough time and care into understanding him could possibly tell that there is so much more that meets the eye in his every word. He’s reading into your every expression, every frown before he decides where this conversation is going to lead.

Oikawa, however, prides himself on being pretty good at reading people.

“There’s a ‘but’, isn’t there? There’s a reason you’re telling me all of this.”

Matsukawa mulls over his next words. There is reluctance between his teeth, but he goes on. “But he doesn’t look happy. He looks content. I’ve seen what it’s like for him to be happy, and it isn’t this.”

 _What does that mean_ , Oikawa wonders. _What could that possibly mean._

“There’s nothing I can do about that anymore, you saw the way he looked at me over dinner. I didn’t come back to be a homewrecker, I’m not _that_ evil, Mattsun.”

“I’m not telling you to break their relationship up, idiot. I just-” he lets out a long, resigned sigh, “-want all of my friends to be happy, is that too much to ask?”

Oikawa sighs too.

“Probably.” His head falls into his outstretched palms.

“Who knows. You left the problem to us years ago, and now we’re leaving it back to you. “

“We? Makki too?”

“You did not hear any of this from me, got that?”

They sit quietly, watching the rain sweep everything away in torrents into the drains of Tokyo. Oikawa wishes they’d sweep every last bit of his sorrows away too.

“Yeah, Mattsun. Thanks.”


	8. city of stars, i.

akaashi keiji.

When Akaashi first met Iwaizumi, he told him, “Things got messy.”

The story goes down like this. Boy falls in love with a star. Boy joins the city of stars this star belongs to. The star is a star in the sky, not for everyone to hold, to touch. Fly close enough and you get to see the star in all of it’s brilliance. Fly too close, and you get burnt.

It was a lovely day of spring when Bokuto graduated. It was full of laughter and flowers, everything brilliant for the likes of someone as brilliant as Bokuto. 

Did Akaashi really expect someone like Bokuto to say yes to a question he must have heard many times as the captain of the Fukurodani volleyball team, as the ace of a powerhouse?

No. Not really.

Did he still find it in him to the hope alight in his heart regardless, telling himself that those lingering looks full of tenderness, the light in his eyes as he catches sight of Akaashi, the smile that was reserved for him, all of those surely means something?

Yes.

Sure, he knew he was setting himself up for disappointment, for heartbreak, but he also knew that if he let himself leave without even trying, he would spend the rest of his life hung over the ‘ _ what if _ ’s and the ‘ _ what could have been _ ’s. He wanted to hope, even if it meant shattering everything else he stood for into pieces with what could follow.

“I like you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi Keiji confesses in front of the Fukurodani gym, a bouquet of camelias in hand. Here was a seventeen year old boy, so in love that his habits are a byproduct of loving Bokuto and what follows after.

He has a full on essay on how Bokuto is the stars in the sky, with the galaxy in his eyes and the flecks of gold that shine from his smile. Akaashi can write sonnets about how Bokuto are fields of flowers that stretch out under the crisp chilly air of Hokkaido, in all of its vibrant gloriousness. But here, he is within the distance of full impact from Bokuto, his poems and songs falter, leaving behind only one bashful boy staring at the object of his adoration in wonder.

"Oh, Akaashi," Bokuto begins, the look in his eyes is unbearable. "I never knew you felt that way."

_ No, don't say it _ , Akaashi pleads silently.  _ Please don't say it- _

“I'm sorry,” Bokuto says quietly, and Akaashi’s heart sinks. 

There it is, the sympathy laid bare, the resoluteness of the situation as a whole. An apology.

“No, it’s okay, Bokuto-san.’  _ Please don’t cry _ , he wills himself.  _ Akaashi Keiji, don’t you dare cry _ , he thinks, but all self control goes out the window when Bokuto gently retrieves the bouquet from his hands. Fat tears begin to roll down his cheeks, and frankly he’s about as mortified as Bokuto looks.

“I'm sorry,” Bokuto whispers once more, then again. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Akaashi rubs furiously at the corner of his eyes. “Please stop being so nice and kind to me, Bokuto-san, this is going to make it so much harder to let go of you.”

This is selfish of him, Akaashi knows. He hates selfish people, who can only see the world in a way made for them. But in front of Bokuto here as the Fukurodani gym, a place stacked with two years of memory that felt like a lifetime but also barely enough, a crack creeps into Akaashi's ideals and shatters them all.

“Akaashi-”

“Shhh, don't say anything, Bokuto-san," Akaashi smiles at him through a teary grin. “It’s in you after all, it is all this kindness and the genuine awe and wonder that makes you you. You can't stop any of that, so don't," he chokes, “-don't say anything. Let me have this. Then it’s enough. I promise.”

He leans in to wrap his arms around Bokuto, who lets him. He cannot see a single thing before him because of the tears that flood his eyes, but he can still feel the gaze full of pity that lands on his back. Silently, Akaashi counts to twenty, twenty seconds for Bokuto to return the hug. If he doesn’t, Akaashi will take the hint, and never set foot across the line between them that is now a boundary.

When he never does, Akaashi takes one step back, then many more. He walks away, and he never turns back.

So here was Akaashi, who had an extra ticket for a jazz piano fair, and a heart broken by a confession that went wrong in all possible ways.

He and Iwaizumi stumbled into each other, and perhaps that was where it all started to go right. In Iwaizumi, Akaashi finds someone who isn’t gliding the heavens, but treks at the same pace by him through the plains and the fields and the rivers.

Akaashi Keiji wants to be seen.

Akaashi fell in love with a star who was looking at the heavens, who could not look beyond the feathers on his majestic wings to look who he had left behind, to see him. Here with Iwaizumi, he does not feel like a solid source of support, the only available option when people want to have extra practice, a good son, a capable captain, a reliable group partner, a punctual editor who’s always on top of his work. In front of Iwaizumi, he is none of those, he is only Akaashi Keiji.

This is all Akaashi has ever wanted.

* * *

matsukawa issei

“What are you working on?”

Matsukawa’s voice cuts through Iwaizumi’s soft tunes of the guitar, as he sets his bass down in a corner. Gently, he opens the casing, and plucks it a few times, tuning it.

“Not much. Was just thinking of something. I didn’t even realise I was playing anything at all, to be honest.”

Iwaizumi looks like shit. It makes Matsukawa feel guilty, even though he hasn’t  _ technically  _ done anything too wrong by Iwaizumi. He has already had this discussion with Hanamaki the previous night.

“ _ Technically? If You Have To Use The Word 'Technically,' You’re Already In Trouble. I already said not yet, but here we are _ ,” Hanamaki tells him before locking himself in his room.

_ He’s right _ , Matsukawa thinks. He grimaces. Then sighs.

“Sorry about yesterday.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze flickers from the vacant space in front of him to focus on Matsukawa. He frowns, then shakes his head. “It’s fine. Couldn’t have been easy for either of you anyway. How, though?”

“He appeared at our doorstep one night, not too long ago. Says he wants to be friends again, says he wants to stop running, stop leaving things behind.” Matsukawa slings the bass’s strap over his neck. “Says he wants to be unafraid and try.”

“Try to … what, exactly? Oikawa and I will never be a thing again. Keiji and I are engaged, this is set in stone. If he’s trying to-”

“No. None of that. I don’t know, man. Maybe he just wants it all to go back to how it was. The four of us. Being us.” When Iwaizumi squints at him, Matsukawa shrugs. “That sounded much more transcendental in my head.”

Iwaizumi lets out a low growl. “Well  _ I _ don’t want it. He doesn’t care, he’s  _ never _ , cared for what anyone but him wants, has he? What a goddamn selfish asshole.”

“That selfish asshole is your best friend.”

“ _ Was. _ I haven’t spoken to him in eight years. I’m a grown ass adult man, Matsukawa. I’m not going to sit here and dwell on an ex from that long ago, the fuck?”

They engage in a staring competition, Iwaizumi’s gaze defensive, Matsukawa’s sceptical.

“What? I mean it!” Iwaizumi snaps. “It’s always about him. What about what I want?”

“Fine, then.” Matsukawa snorts. “What  _ do _ you want? You’ve made me curious.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, if I get you what you want you’ll give him a chance, right? So what do you want.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes narrow. “Stop putting words into my mouth. I didn’t say that.”

“Go on, don’t be shy. Do you want us to take you out for dinner? Take you out stargazing? Camping?”

“I want Oikawa gone.”

“No can do, friend. Next?”

“Why not, just kick him out.”

“He’s interesting to have around. Hanamaki’s going nuts.”

“Man,” Iwaizumi groans. “You’re really smitten for him.”

Matsukawa scrunches his face up in disgust. “Oikawa? Fuck no. Pretty boys are your type.”

“I meant Hanamaki. You don’t have to dodge my questions. I already know.”

So Hanamaki calls in sick for one day, and he and Iwaizumi are already at each other’s throats. Matsukawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh, a low blow.”

“Why don’t you make a move?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you and I and both know he has a thing for you, and he’s not going to make a move because you hide it better than he does. What are you so afraid of, anyway?”

“Why are you afraid of Oikawa, huh, Mr grown ass adult man?”

Iwaizumi shuts up, seething. He goes back to fiddling with the tune he’d been working on before Matsukawa arrived. Matsukawa lets him.

He’s not afraid.

Between the two of them, Hanamaki has always been the afraid one. Matsukawa is the perceptive one, who reads between Hanamaki’s every fond stare that lingers, endeared by the exaggerated eyeroll at a particularly stupid joke. Hanamaki isn’t the kind of person who people fall in love with at first sight like Okawa, dazzled by his glow, nor the kind of person who everyone will grow to love without fail, like Iwaizumi, all warmed by the care he extends. He is all things warm and bright in his own way, but wrapped up in layers and layers that are hard to see through, and Matsukawa occasionally suspects, even for himself too.

This is what Matsukawa is holding onto. There is this light within Hanamaki Takahiro, one that bubbles and brims with life and vitality, one that Matsukawa can only see himsef dimming. 

For someone who lies as frequently as Matsukawa, he holds on dearly to the very few truths he believes in. This is one of them. 

He’s mastered the art of lying, of covering himself in layers of pretense. If it keeps the fire in Hanamaki burning, this sounds like something that can sit well with Matsukawa.

The memory of a conversation slips into his head.

_ “Hey, Hanamaki, what happens if you fall for someone who isn’t worthy of you?” _

_ “What are you on?” _ Back then, Hanamaki had laughed it off.  _ “My taste in people is impeccable. If I fall for them I’m sure they’d be more than worthy of me.” _

_ “No, but what if? What if they simply don’t have ambitions or achievements high enough to match yours, or just not as kind, not as loyal, not as logical, not as … well, y’know, everything about you. Hypothetically?”  _ Matsukawa shrugs.  _ “You never know.” _

The look he returns to Matsukawa is scrutinising, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid.  _ “I’d … still fall for them regardless? I’ll still take every bit of them, the highs and lows, just as they are, because they’re worth it.” _

Matsukawa lets out a low chuckle, but he feels hollow inside.  _ “That wasn’t my question.” _

_ “Who cares, that will still be my answer.” _

_ “You’re projecting. You’re thinking of someone, and projecting this hypothesis onto them.” _

_ “Maybe.” _

Matsukawa doesn’t realise Iwaizumi has stopped playing until he calls out to him, cutting his train of thoughts short.

“Oi. Matsukawa.” He sounds reluctant. Grudging.

“What?”

“Camping sounds good. So does stargazing.”

_ Aww _ , Matsukawa thinks. “Can we bring Oikawa?”

“Man, honestly, fuck you.”

* * *

akaashi keiji

Oikawa Tooru has always been a touchy subject for Iwaizumi. It is why Akaashi has never asked, he only listens to however much Iwaizumi is willing to say.

The next morning after it happens, Iwaizumi told him about everything that had happened, how Oikawa is suddenly back, how he met him, how there is something that he thought he’d repressed so long ago now bubbling to the surface of what used to be a lake of calmness, threatening to flood the surroundings. 

“I’m sorry for making you worry, Keiji.” Iwaizumi walks over to Akaashi’s seat over breakfast and wraps his arms around him, letting out a wistful sigh. “It seems to be all I’ve been doing these days huh?”

“It’s okay,” Akaashi murmurs weakly. “I keep telling you it’s okay but you never seem to believe me, Hajime. I only tell you it’s okay because it really is.”

“I’m sorry,” Iwaizumi echoes.

Tilting his head upwards, Akaashi looks into Iwaizumi’s eyes. Gently, Iwaizumi presses a kiss to his lips.

“Stop saying you’re sorry, Hajime. I forbid it. It’s not your fault, it never is. You need to get out of this habit of saying sorry for things that are not your fault.” Akaashi smiles at him, presses his nose gently twice.

Iwaizumi jumps, shouting indignantly, “What was that for?” 

“If you’re going to act like a child I’m going to treat you like one,” Akaashi calls out laughing, and lunges towards Iwaizumi playfully. He starts the chase. It’s ridiculous, two adults leaping around the room with peals of laughter and shouts everywhere, but it’s enough to dispel the gloomy air that has been hanging around for some time.

Eventually, Akaashi manages to pin Iwaizumi by a wall. In the most menacing tone he could muster, he says, “repeat after me, weak one.”

“What the fuck on earth, Keiji,” Iwaizumi grumbles, but he lets himself stay in the grasp, back against the wall.

Akaashi’s tone softens. “Say thank you next time, so that I can tell you you’re welcome, you’re most welcome to rely on me anytime you need, instead of telling you that it’s okay, alright?”

“Alright,” he replies gently. “Thank you. Thank you for that day, for the days before that, and the days that will continue to come until we’re both old and grey.”

“That’s right,” Akaashi smiles, but he doesn’t miss the hollow look in Iwaizumi’s eyes when he lets go, when Iwaizumi thinks he’s stopped looking. 

His heart dips at the sight. 

He does not know enough for fire to light up in his veins when he hears the name Oikawa Tooru the way it is for Iwaizumi, to the point that even he himself is singed by the flames of fury and something that resembles hatred. But he does know enough for there to be an unsettling flicker of warmth in his gut. Perhaps it’s mostly accompanied with the defensiveness and eagerness to protect Iwaizumi from whatever this is, the evil from years ago that left a hole in the man he loves that Akaashi will never be able to fill.

There is nothing he can do about it, is there?

Akaashi can simply wait, and mend the hole bit by bit as time goes along. He will never be the childhood friend turned lover turned sorrow that lingers in every corner, but he can be the comfort that dulls this sorrow until it’s completely drowned out. 

“You’re welcome,” he whispers to the sight of Iwaizumi’s back, when he’s trudged too far to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a recurring theme w "city of stars", hence i, eventually ii, then iii. guess what?


	9. planetarium.

oikawa tooru.

Iwaizumi thinks about how lucky his friends are that he’s such a tolerating friend when Hanamaki calls him at 7am on a Saturday. Anyone else would have been murderous, probably.

“What on earth-”

“Matsukawa said you wanna go camping, or hiking, so we’ll be by your house in 10.”

“Huh?”

“You, us, hiking, 10 minutes.”

 _It’s too early for this_. Iwaizumi groans in response. He thinks of yelling at him, but that requires effort. 7am Iwaizumi hates effort.

“Ever heard of an early notice?”

“This _is_ early! We were considering not telling you at all and just arriving at your doorstep but Oikawa said you would probably riot.”

“It takes three people for it to be considered a riot, and there’s only one of me versus the three of-”

Iwaizumi’s eyelids flutter open. For real, this time. 

“Oikawa,” he hisses.

“Yeah, he’s coming with us.” Hanamaki has the audacity to be so nonchalant about it, one person or not, Iwaizumi’s going to riot.

“No.”

“Yes. We’re just going to scale a mountain, man, he’s not going to hurt you.”

“He’s not going to be able to keep up with us,” Iwaizumi fumbles for excuses, but comes up short.

“You’re joking, right?” Hanamaki laughs, a jingle too goddamn cheerful for what’s appropriate on a Saturday morning at the ass crack of dawn. “Oikawa’s the only professional athlete here, remember? He’s going to keep up with us fine, alright. That should be the least of your worries.”

“It’s him or me.” Seeing how reasoning with these barbarians won’t work, Iwaizumi settles on the other route — threats.

“Clock’s ticking, you have nine minutes now!”

***

Oikawa doesn’t try anything too out of line all the ride, nor the ascent. This is why Iwaizumi grudgingly tolerates his presence — that’s what he tells himself, at least.

It’s not as much of hiking as it is walking, only on roads that are slightly steep enough to make a category of its own, but Iwaizumi has always enjoyed it regardless. Parks are not difficult to find in Japan, but that makes the feeling of nature feel too carefully crafted, too intricately created. It’s lovely, but in a dainty way that suggested that was the purpose it was crafted for, to have the exact curve of every branch and every flower that glowed to attract every soul who passed by.

Here on the hills, there are no perfectly crafted sceneries, only the strong branches that have managed to squeeze past the rest of them and fought their way to victory for the nutrients, towards the sun. There are no refined terrains that looked picture-perfect, that have been sculpted to appeal to all who come across it, only many scars that have been left behind after the wrecks of nature itself, proof of all it has fought and triumphed over the years, spirals and meanders etched into the tree trunks.

Somehow, it is this kind of less-than-perfect appearance that bares itself — the unsightliness and the growth — that touches Iwaizumi’s heart more than any carefully landscaped garden could ever. It is acknowledging the vulnerability and fears, then prevailing, that captures Iwaizumi’s heart. He wants to root for these forests hidden away on hilltops that people don’t ever visit.

They remind him of Oikawa.

When they reach level ground on the waist of the hill, Oikawa offers him the last chocolate chip cookie of the packet. Iwaizumi accepts it instinctively, because he’s hungry, not because he’s forgiven Oikawa for being a selfish asshole.

He finishes the cookie in one bite only to find Oikawa looking at him with a startled expression. “What?” he asks, making a point to sound bored. Don’t give Oikawa the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him, something like that.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa are nowhere to be found, saying they were gonna go “explore around the area”. They’ve been coming here for years at intervals so frequent that they’re past the point of knowing every slope and creek of this hill. No one, perhaps not even themselves, really believes them, but they still say it anyway, giving Iwaizumi and Oikawa a lot of weird gesturing and winking and the like.

“You accepted my offering!” Oikawa cheers, eyes lit up with wonder.

“So?” Iwaizumi scrunches up his nose. “It’s just a cookie, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

The taste of cheap packaged chocolate chip cookies takes Iwaizumi back to a time before any of this was so complicated. For some reason, these cookies have always come in packets of three; chocolate chips, oatmeals and nuts flecked within chocolate dough. Oikawa’s mum would pack a packet for Oikawa every day from all of elementary school to middle school. He didn’t have to, but he’d always leave the last piece from the packet for Iwaizumi.

It was always this easy three pieces of chocolate chip cookies, all of them belonging to Oikawa, then by extension, Iwaizumi; out of some odd compulsive obligation, things that belonged to Oikawa belonged to him too. There were never lines that separated them, not boundaries, not the pacific ocean, it was just them, and a packet of chocolate chip cookies.

It was just this, Oikawa being a child and getting excited over a chocolate chip cookie.

 _Who cares how simple it can be_ , a resentful part of Iwaizumi reminds, _it was him who overcomplicated things, right?_

Oikawa looks at Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi looks at anywhere that isn’t Oikawa (it’s the satisfaction thing at play again, he tells himself), which doesn’t leave him with anything but the maze of trees they’re surrounded with. 

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa sighs.

“You’ve said that,” Iwaizumi grumbles.

“Do you think we’ll ever be friends again?”

“I’m climbing a mountain with you, I wouldn’t say we’re strangers.”

“Nooo,” Oikawa pouts. “Like _friends_ friends, people who joke and rely on each other.”

“You are the last person I would rely on in the universe.”

“Aww, come on, Iwaizumi. We both know it can’t be that hard. You’re friends with everyone.”

Oikawa laughs. One minute it is there, the sound of jingling bells, the next there is none of it, swallowed by the wind and carried away between the trees. Iwaizumi finds himself aching for this particular kind of innocent giddiness that belonged to simpler times, but he tells himself firmly that he didn’t get enough sleep to be thinking about this clearly. 

“Not you.” Iwaizumi almost believes his attempts at being crude has no effect against Oikawa’s thick skin, but some things — like the phantom of fear tucked at the corners of his eyes — never really change. It takes a long time to know someone like the back of your hand, but it takes longer to unlearn them still.

This is not the Oikawa Iwaizumi knows. The Oikawa Iwaizumi knows would brush all of these direct confrontations with a smile, with a change of the topic, and repress it for the seasons to come, never to be brought up again. This Oikawa is scared, is hurt, but wears his scars where everyone can see. This Oikawa is terrified, but he’s not backing down from Iwaizumi’s unsheathed hostility.

Iwaizumi wants to respect that, even if he really hates this selfish asshole, that’s what he tells himself anyway.

That, or he must be really sleep deprived.

He sighs. “Do you have more cookies?” 

Oikawa’s face lights up. “Yeah, I have one more!”

Iwaizumi waits for the sound of plastic being torn and for the one piece of cookie to be handed over like it has always been done, but Oikawa tosses Iwaizumi the entire packet that Iwaizumi catches in one swift movement. Iwaizumi stares at the packet of cookies, watching the rituals and habits of cookie sharing that they have established across the year shatter before his eyes.

Here is new territory. Instead of the one out of three pieces of chocolate chip cookies, Oikawa has given him the entire packet. His _last_ packet. Instead of shying away from everything he’s scared of, Oikawa is here to try. He’s back here, in Japan.

Iwaizumi tears the packet open and hands Oikawa a chocolate chip cookie, as they sit here in this forest in the middle of a hill — the furthest place possible from perfect or pristine — but enchanting all the same.

* * *

hanamaki takahiro.

“Oikawa will you _please_ \- stop interrupting me?”

Oikawa flails around Hanamaki’s kitchen, clearly distressed. Matsukawa is busy eating breakfast and being fascinated by the events that are conspiring before his eyes. Hanamaki can’t help but feel like he’s in a sitcom at times like these, one that he landed himself in.

“I regret everything,” he declares, pointing a long finger at Oikawa. “We should never have taken you in. You’re too unruly and out of control.”

Oikawa Tooru — who has been sent into a flurry because of a wedding invitation — is far too busy being invested in his own troubles to pay Hanamaki any attention. The look Matsukawa gives him does not provide him any solace, a mix of halfhearted sympathy and “I told you so”.

“What are you getting so worked up about? I thought you were happy that Hinata and Kageyama are finally settling down after all those years.” Hanamaki snaps, tired of Oikawas hysterics first thing in the morning. He drags the heels of his palms across his face. Hanamaki may be a morning person, but he wasn’t a mornings _with Oikawa_ person.

“Yes, but the _seating arrangments_ ,” Oikawa wails. We’re with Iwaizumi. And Akaashi. _Why_ are we with them? _How_ are we with them?”

Matsukawa interjects. “Why are you surprised? We always go together whenever there are larger occasions like weddings or gatherings. You of all people have the least rights to complain with what you’re comfortable with and what you’re not.” He shoves a mouthful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Giving Matsukawa a tearful glance, Oikawa shuts up. Hanamaki throws Matsukawa a wondrous look, then wonders why the hell he hadn’t done that earlier if he knew very well he had the ability to. 

“As I was saying-” he throws a murderous glare at Oikawa, “-it’s this Saturday, and it’s back in Miyagi so please be prepared. There won’t be another shinkansen to let us reach on time if we miss the first one.”

Oikawa starts to go off on his suits, or lack thereof. Matsukawa throws in a snide comment every now and then as he sees fit. Whatever angsty or overly dramatised minor inconvenience has bubbled down to nothing more than a grumble, which, coming from Oikawa, was nothing that Hanamaki had to heed attention to. He has issues more pressing than Oikawa’s hairdresser dilemma.

Having made his announcement, Hanamaki leaves the dining table, shutting the door to his room behind him, drowning out the rest of the discord. Matsukawa should have his fair share of ‘dealing with Oikawa when he’s set on being a pain in the ass’. It’s only fair.

Hanamaki isn’t really sure when it started, but the concept of weddings have always felt too holy, too sacred for him to even think about.

There are thoughts you tell the world: you think sunsets are gorgeous, you think puppies are the cutest things to exist. There are thoughts you keep to yourself: You think the “Your Name” movie is overrated. There are fantasies that you only dare to dream of, like opening the biggst music store chain in Japan, one that overtook even Yamaha.

And then, there are weddings, at the very pinnacle of things he doesn’t dare to even think about, for fear of disrupting the sanctity of it all.

What even _follows_ after the concept of marriage, anyway?

Is it the stares that linger before you leave home for work cut short only when one side (it is always Hanamaki) turns red, the extra bento that was prepared for you, getting a large enough sink so two people who happened to wake up at the same time could brush your teeth side by side (and call it not wanting to disrupt each other’s schedules, while you’re at that)? 

Is it a place, a person to call home, to come back to after a long day, someone who’s the first number on your speed dial for “emergency purposes”, your first line of defence against all that was not well in this world? Is it the person who sends tremors through your heart and soul simply with a mere upturned curl of the lips?

Is it being very, _very_ in love?

Hanamaki shudders at the thought of this. He wonders if concepts of weddings, marriages are so untouchable because of how self indulgent it’ll feel, to guiltily know that everything he wants is right before his eyes, but at the same time equally painful, because this is all he’ll ever get with the person he loves, not weddings, not dates, not anything.

He wonders if he’s jealous, after all, of the people who the fates have allowed to have a wedding, to have something bloom from the very same ardent feelings he’s feeling, when his feelings are doomed to wither away in his ribcage.

* * *

oikawa tooru.

Oikawa Tooru wants to be unafraid.

He has left Japan and gone to Argentina and left Argentina and come back to Japan. He has decided he loves Iwaizumi, and then decided he has to leave him because he loves him too much, and then eaten his own words because he now _has_ to come back, once again because he loves him, even though he’s not coming back to seek his love.

He’s being absolutely ridiculous, he knows, but he’s here in one piece and has successfully made it this far. He can make it further, unafraid.

“Hi?” Oikawa says once he plops into the seat next to Iwaizumi at the wedding. He watches the blood drain out of Iwaizumi’s face, then him going through the stages of grief.

“It cannot be you,” he says defeatedly. “Why are you here, I was not warned, oh my god. People keep springing you on me. Tag your triggers, for fuck’s sake.”

Oikawa sees a very pretty guy behind him and thinks _ah, the fiance_.The initially cheerful grin he plastered on suddenly feels very forced. “Why would you have to be warned, Iwaizumi?” he chirps just as Iwaizumi catches sight of Matsukawa behind him, who is suddenly incredibly interested in something on his phone. 

“Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi says through gritted teeth and a sickly sweet voice. “Issei, my dearest friend?”

Matsukawa looks up. “Yes, dear Hajime?”

Behind Matsukawa, another exasperated voice. “Oh my god, I knew this was a horrible idea.”

“You both, _again._ ” Iwaizumi breezes.

“Hajime,” Akaashi calls out to him, the fondness in the tone sending a chill up Oikawa’s spine. “No murder on their big day, Hajime. I’m pretty sure Hinata and Kageyama would be very upset at you. You know better than anyone what those two are capable of.”

“Thank you for being the only person with an ounce of common sense here, Akaashi,” Hanamaki says. “I’ve been going insane as of late.”

“Glad to be of service, Hanamaki,” Akaashi says in a humoured tone, then reaches a hand out to Oikawa. “You must be Oikawa-san, nice to make your acquaintance.”

Oikawa hesitates briefly. It’s evident how he’s already put everyone at this table to ease just by being here. Oikawa did not set out to ruin Iwaizumi’s and Akaashi’s relationship, sure, but he wasn’t planning on befriending Akaashi either. But now, Oikawa fails to find even the slightest trail of malice nor ill will in Akaashi’s eyes, he knows deep down he will never find it in himself to hate him either.

He reaches out to take the outstretched hand and shakes it firmly, noting the warmth both from Akaashi’s palm and the smile on his face. “Just Oikawa will do, it’s fine. Pleasure to meet you too.”

“Can I change seats with you, Keiji?” Iwaizumi asks loudly, cutting in. “Since you both seem to have hit it off thus far and I have absolutely nothing to say to this guy over here, I think this arrangement would fit perfectly, wouldn’t it?”

“I thought you both got along when we were hiking,” Matsukawa jabs.

“I got along with the chocolate chip cookies, not him.”

Oikawa waits for Akaashi to say yes to Iwaizumi, for this night to turn into something he had counted on to at least achieve some sort of closure with Iwaizumi to turn into a night of awkward conversations and unfruitful banter, but to his surprise, Akaashi shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, Hajime. You both haven’t seen each other for so long, there must be so much you want to catch up on, isn’t there? You don’t have to worry about me tonight, I see some of my friends from high school around.”

Iwaizumi’s expression sours. He stops speaking, the depression state of grief. 

The wedding is short and sweet despite the combined energy levels of Hinata and Kageyama. An exchange of rituals, then rings, then a kiss. A wave of pride surges through Oikawa. He wants to say he contributed to the joining of this pair of lovebirds, but he’s moved past being a selfish bastard who sincerely believes the world revolves around him, to being one who only _hopes_ for the world to revolve around him as an endgoal. He’s realised he needs to work for things he wants. Character development, Oikawa likes to call it.

Iwaizumi must not have gone through any, he thinks, because after an hour of sitting here, he still refuses to speak to Oikawa, not about the weather, not about the food, not about his career, and most certainly not about how he’s doing. He only responds to Oikawa through simple noncommittal grunts, as if Oikawa was a siren who would suck his soul and then sell it on the black market if he said anything that wasn’t monosyllable.

Oikawa wonders if it’d be any different had he brought some chocolate chip cookies.

Still, Oikawa tries. He came here afraid, but he also came here to be unafraid, to try and try and try until he either succeeds, or fails. He came here to make amends, he came here for closure, and if he’d be damned if he left without one.

Iwaizumi’s will is broken eventually, even though Oikawa is pretty sure it was in more parts thanks to his ability to be incredibly irritating when he tries, rather than his sincerity — it simply doesn’t seem to be getting through.

“Why are you doing this?” Iwaizumi asks, clearly frustrated. “Why are you even trying so hard when it clearly isn’t going to work, Oikawa,?”

Oikawa blinks twice at him, pleased. “Oh god, you no longer think I’m a siren trying to suck your soul.” The frustration on Iwaizumi’s face changes into a scowl. Oikawa hastily goes on. “But it’s working, isn’t it? You’re finally talking to me. We’re finally talking this out.”

“Bullshit. Why now, of all times? Weren’t you going on something about not wanting to try, about things you’re so afraid of, too scared to even make the leap?” Iwaizumi snorts. There is distrust in his eyes. Oikawa doesn’t blame him.

The lights are dimmed out in the ballroom, for some romantic or atmospheric effect that Oikawa personally cannot differentiate. All he knows is that he cannot really see all that clearly. But yet, next to Iwaizumi, he still catches the silhouette of Akaashi flinching at his words. 

_Why try, indeed_ , Oikawa thinks.

As he’s grown to find, it is all about trying sometimes, because trying is all you have.

If there is no fear that looms in the background of every step you take, that is simply called doing. Trying is when you think it won't work, but you still go for it anyway. It is running headfirst into a concrete wall, then wishfully hoping it will give way to your idiocy, or stubbornness — whichever applied more.

“If I weren't scared as hell, this wouldn't be called trying,” Oikawa whispers, “It’d simply be doing. If I wasn’t wondering if you’d continue to hate me for the rest of my life, this wouldn’t be so significant to me. But because it is, because I can’t help but fear that each step I take will be the last one before I fall to my demise, I’m eager to get everything out there, so that you’ll see I’m serious about making amends, and that I genuinely am sorry.”

Iwaizumi stares. Oikawa waits for his verdict, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Iwaizumi turns back to the food on his plate in a daze-like state, heavily in thought.

 _Here it is_ , Oikawa thinks. _I’ve gone to Argentina, only to come back realising what I wanted was here all along, so it was all for nothing. And now that I’ve come back, only to realise what I wanted was lost anyway, so I might as well have stayed. Here it is, the last step before I fall to my demise._

Oikawa silently backs down. He has lost his rights to push too far against the barriers that Iwaizumi has put up. Next to him, he can tell Hanamaki and Matsukuwa have heard the entire exchange, but they are gracious enough to bicker on about some celebrity’s new tweet, heeding Oikawa and Iwaizumi no attention. Oikawa is grateful for that.

He’s already thinking about what he should do next, be it drowning himself in mukbang worthy amounts of food or go develop new interests like ballet or knitting when Iwaizumi speaks.

“Oikawa Tooru,” he says, excruciatingly slow, "You are so full of shit."

Finally, there is a hint of the Iwaizumi he knows in that one look that he can tell Iwaizumi is trying his best to hide. There is mirth, there is some contempt, there is exasperation, but most of all, there is fondness. He looks at Oikawa with this amazed wideyed stare, like he cannot make head or tail of him whatsoever.

In spite of himself, Oikawa lets out a low chuckle. “I know, right?”


	10. summer montage / madeline.

oikawa tooru.

“Have you ever seen us perform?” Hanamaki asks lazily one afternoon, then cuts him off before he can reply, “-and no, our recordings don’t count, because I don’t think these studios ever really do our true talents justice.”

So Oikawa has to say no, of course. He left after Iwaizumi wrote him a song telling Oikawa he loved him with so much intensity that it scared Oikawa away (correction, he scared himself away. Acceptance of the problem was the first step to recovery. Iwaizumi was to take no blame in this matter altogether, Oikawa chides himself); he left before the band could even be a thing for him to witness in person.

“Why don’t you come watch us practice once?” Hanamaki grins. “It’ll be fun to flex on someone who can’t do anything music.”

“Hey.” Oikawa wraps his arms around himself defensively. “I just never found interest in personally doing anything with musical instruments. I can sing fine.” He’s stared down by both Hanamaki and Matsukawa before he reluctantly adds, “Probably.”

Hanamaki teases, “well yeah, we’re not going against your word, pretty boy, but once you hear Iwaizumi sing you’ll know your place, small fry.”

Oikawa crosses his arms. “Is this a hunch from you both trying to get me to appreciate our music skills or something, trying to get me to watch you perform live?” He receives an unimpressed look.

“It’ll be more for your benefit than ours, small fry. We don’t simply let anyone in to come watch us backstage, you know? Iwaizumi’s crazy fans would kill for this.”

“Iwaizumi has stalkers?”

“Matsukawa didn’t say they were stalkers, he just said they were crazy, which I agree. We’re derailing from the main point, Oikawa. Do you want to come or not?”

***

While Oikawa didn’t make a point of actively pursuing music, this didn’t mean he was completely clueless either. He’s always known his friends were good at what they do, he just never realised it was _this good_ , until hearing it upclose.

He stands by the doorway that separates him from his friends, taking in the riffs and the harmonies that came from inside, and not for the first time today, wondered if it was out of place for him to intrude in this particular band session.

Music, along with whatever role it has always played in Iwaizumi’s life has always felt like sacred territory, one unwelcome to plebian eyes. Here, Oikawa is being presented with an invitation to the holy lair where all these remarkable things his friends have been doing all this time are breathed to life.

Oikawa doesn’t feel worthy.

When the song ends, he prepares to creep away but Hanamaki’s voice slices through the air.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare?” he drawls.

Oikawa sighs. He's been cornered. Nowhere to go but forward, or something along the similar sentient.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he nags himself. _You are a young independent adult, surely you can’t be afraid of watching your friends strike some chords on the guitar_. Oikawa pushes the door open.

He shifts his weight from leg to leg, waiting for Iwaizumi to complain about how he’s here and kick him out, pour a drink on him or something, but it never comes.

“You’re not going to kick me out?” he asks, surprised.

“I’m not the dramatic one of this group, Shitty-kawa.”

Oikawa watches the long missed nickname roll off Iwaizumi’s tongue and tears begin to well in his eyes. He almost takes it as a sign of forgiveness but he stops short when he notices Iwaizumi is just as surprised as he is.

“Sit down somewhere, Oikawa,” Matsukawa gestures to a corner of the room with a tilt of the chin. “We’re trying out something new that Hanamaki wrote soon.”

Wordlessly, Oikawa falls onto one of the stray beanbags scattered around the room. Hanamaki cues them in, and Oikawa is effortlessly swept into the tide of their music. Iwaizumi sings a song about longing, about heights that have been scaled with the adrenaline boost of hope, and then a long, long fall into nothingness.

The second verse sweeps in, and Iwaizumi once more sings about yearning, about believing that anyone coud deserve to love this ferociously and to be loved back with the same intensity, dispelling the fog that has been created with the previous chorus. He sings in a way that has Oikawa clinging onto the hope for every good thing to come, and then comes the diminished chords that leads back into a chorus of despair, of a kind of sadness that did not come in tidal waves, but rather long rivers that has flowed before the beginning of civilisation — the gloom has always been there, and it will not be disappearing anytime soon.

When the song finally rolls to an end, Oikawa is far beyond hollowed out of his emotions, partially from the song, partially from projecting too much of his own sorrows into lyrics that were not even written with him in mind in the first place, but oddly felt as such.

“That was beautiful,” he tells his three friends. “I loved it.”

“I told you so,” and oh boy, Hanamaki is so smug at being right. “Recordings could never capture that kind of raw passion in all of its full glory.” Matsukawa does not offer any comments explicitly, but the small smirk at the corner of his lips is enough to give the pride he takes away, even for a fraction of a second.

Oikawa looks intently at Iwaizumi, but the latter makes a stubborn point of looking down. He fidgets with his guitar, but in a way so absentmindedly that tells Oikawa he’s hanging onto his every word.

“I forgot how well you sang. It’s been so long,” he laughs, wiping away the tears that swimmed in his eyes. “Man if I heard that kind of song live at a concert, I’d probably stalk you too.”

Iwaizumi jumps up with a scowl. “People do not-” he begins, only to find Matsukawa and Hanamaki fondly beaming at him.

“Oh, so you _all_ think this is funny. Wonderful.”

 _Raw passion is right_ , Oikawa thinks, letting the bittersweet feeling that started out from his stomach flow through his bones, all the way to his fingertips. Here, as he stares at Iwaizumi, he thinks about the two things he knows in this moment, clear as day.

One. He loves Iwaizumi Hajime with everything he has to offer.

Two. This is a secret he’ll carry to his grave if need be.

* * *

akaashi keiji.

On every second Friday night of the month, Iwaizumi and Akaashi can be found hand in hand on the streets of Tokyo. These are nights set aside just for them, a ritual they have always committed to over the years, time for each other.

The takoyaki store hidden deep between the streets is always their last stop before they head for home, one so secluded and unremarkable that it was very easy to miss. Sometimes Akaashi wonders what this says about their taste, oddly attracted and entranced by the things that other people miss.

He munches on a red bean taiyaki, watching the lights from the lanterns that hang at the entrance of the store filter into Iwaizumi’s emerald eyes. It reminds him of ancient and forgotten forests, in the same regal and untouchable way, a thing before your time that has seen generations before it come and go, and will continue to do the same for everything that will continue to come.

“Hajime,” he calls out between bites of his taiyaki, the sweetness of red bean paste grounding him to the reality before him. Iwaizumi Hajime, love of his life at a takoyaki shop that they religiously visit. Shared portions of their lives, rituals built up over the course of the years. These are the things that are the truth. Everything else, ancient and regal forests, are all in his head. “You want to forgive him, don’t you?” 

This is a rare occurrence for him, taking the first active step to seek answers to the doubts that lurk at the depths of his mind.

He waits, watching Iwaizumi stun, then watches the anguish make its way onto Iwaizumi’s sharp features. A pang of regret stabs him. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready yet. It’s okay,” he quickly adds, but the damage has already been done.

“N-no. Yes. I don’t know.”

 _Well_ , he thinks. _He’s already taken the first step. There’s no backing out now._

“Can I help? With whatever that’s making you hesitate, I mean,” he explains. “Is it me? I would support you no matter whatever you do. You know that.”

“It’s not about you,” he murmurs. “It just feels wrong, Keiji.”

Silence.

“Why?” he keeps his tone level, taking note to brandish all hints of things that could be branded as something accusatory.

There is a heavy weight on his shoulders. He doesn’t understand what these feelings are, nor where they come from. All he knows that they’ve been weighing on him for so long that he just wants to be _rid_ of them already. But lashing out at Iwaizumi who must be going through more than he is is not his goal of the night. He’s not here to force Iwaizumi into a dead end and draw out a cinematic award winning heartwrenching masterpiece.

There is simply an unnerving feeling, like a premonition of something to come. Akaashi just wants to be rid of this all, so everything can go back to normal. This is why he needs to push through. Whatever it is that Iwaizumi needs, he’ll give it to him. Then, things will be fine.

They have to be.

“It feels like I’m betraying myself by letting him get whatever he wants with me, doesn’t it? He wants to be together, so we get together. He wants to break up, once, then twice, and I let him. Suddenly, I’m getting married. Suddenly he wants to rekindle, and I’m just, supposed to go with that?”

Akaashi takes a deep breath and sighs.

“Forgiving someone doesn’t make you weak. He’s not setting out to come between us, he’s trying to rekindle whatever bond you had over the past years. You were lovers, but before that you were best friends. You aren’t just more comfortable with him, Hajime, there’s something about the way you both act around each other that makes it clear that it’s something about how close you two are, and how well you understand each other as people.”

“I don’t understand him, Keiji. I would never do that to someone I loved, abandon them without a single word, only to come back to make what,” he spits, “ _amends_ ? I don’t have feelings for him anymore, not hate, not love, not affection, not anything. It just _feels_ wrong. I don’t know how to go beyond that.”

“I know.” When Akaashi reaches out for his hand, he half expects him to shrink back, but he doesn’t. Quietly, he adds, “I just want you to be happy. I think being friends with Oikawa again, and getting closure with everything instead of letting it linger and have it hurt like this can help with that.”

Iwaizumi hangs his head, tapping his sneakers on the floor in some sort of inconsistent but still melodic rhythm. It is a habit Akaashi notices he has grown into whenever he’s distressed. “It feels terrible to keep running after things that you know you can’t keep up with, Keiji. It’s like that Greek myth about the guy who has to keep pushing a boulder uphill for the rest of eternity, only to have it tumble down again. It’s watching the end goal get near and nearer, feeding yourself with false hope, and then getting it ruthlessly crushed over and over.”

Iwaizumi looks at Akaashi with a despairing look. It breaks his heart. “I can’t keep doing this, Keiji. I’m so tired of being left behind.”

Akaashi squeezes his hand. “I know, Hajime. I understand. I just want you to be happy, and I think we both know who plays so much of a role in that.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive him, Keiji. It feels like the right thing to do, but there’s a part of me that resents him, resents missing him, and it just feels like betrayal. I don’t know, fucking hell, ever since he came back, it’s just felt like everything has been one entire mess.”

“You can. You can do any of it. You’ve already come this far, and there is only this one last step that no one is stopping you from.”

Iwaizumi looks him in the eye, emerald gems, ancient forests and all. “What about you?” he whispers.

“Do you _need_ my blessing really, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi stares in silence, waiting for him to reply. Akaashi readjusts his glasses.

“You don’t. You don’t need my blessing, or anyone’s really, but if it makes you feel better, my blessings are always yours to keep.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze morphs into something else, a cross between gratitude and determination. There is a part of Akaashi that sounds sirens in his head, but the warmth from Iwaizumi’s hand in his pushes them all to the back of his head.

* * *

matsukawa issei.

Somehow, Matsukawa keeps finding himself watching the stars with Hanamaki.

It isn’t about the inherent gorgeousness of these celestial objects lightyears away from them. It’s not about the stunning beauty and metaphors that make natural phenomenon - no more than mere balls of gas - so breathtakingly enticing, it is not about the imagery and aesthetic of watching stars with a friend and things it could lead to.

Matsukawa isn’t sure what it is either.

Maybe it’s simply something that accompanies the concept of living together. You eat your breakfasts and dinners together. You start sharing the same social circles. You take turns taking the clothes to the laundromat and cooking dinner, sharing the responsibilities and tasks and weaving fragments of your own lives into each other’s.

You watch stars.

“It was always hardest for you to forgive him, wasn’t it?” Hanamaki asks him under the stars.

When Matsukawa lies, it is spurred by an odd sense of self protection for the most part. One wrong word, one smidge of honesty, and the truth will put a spear through his ribs. There’s never really a need for any of these pretenses when Hanamaki sees through all of him, but then again, there’s no real reason not to either.

“Really,” a smile slips onto Hanamaki’s face, “didn’t look like it at all.”

“I’m not Iwaizumi,” he shrugs. One sentence. Three words. This could mean anything. _I’m not the guy who Oikawa left behind like that, why would I have it the hardest? I don’t wear my heart on a sleeve the way Iwaizumi does, why do you think I’d look exactly like what I feel?_ He doesn’t feel there’s a full truth in either statement to Hanamaki’s question, so he leaves it to his interpretation.

“No, of course not.” Hanamaki tears his gaze away from him back to the stars that twinkle on. “You’re Matsukawa Issei, but I think you have every right to be as angry or more than any of us, whatever your reasons are.”

“You and Iwaizumi were always the ones closer with him anyway.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point? He left you here to pick the pieces, because you’d be the least affected by his leaving, or at the very least, the first to spring back to your feet after it all. I can’t imagine it being anything nice to watch your friends agonising over someone who left.”

Was it really as Hanamaki says, he wonders. He thinks back of those days and how ridiculous it feels, crushing turns of events that feel suffocating simply because you’re eighteen, and how things that will no longer carry weight by the time you’re twenty eight feels like the entire world then. So why does he keep seething, if he insists this is no longer something he cares about?

He watches the lights from the stars that reflect from Hanamaki’s eyes, and he supposes the reason goes beyond that, beyond everything that is Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Sure, they are people he’d die for, but dying for someone is not the most grandiose thing that people can do. There is someone out there that makes him want to dedicate his life to living for, just standing by him, quietly, watching the stars on their shared balcony until they fade into daylight.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “but it’s not about me.”

“What then?” Hanamaki’s eyebrows are knitted together in confusion.

Matsukawa thinks about what is the truth, and whether this would be worth the consequences. 

“It’s not about having to be the shoulder for Iwaizumi to lean on. It’s not the feeling of being the next best thing left behind that people expect to be a worthy replacement. It could be that, and so many other things for me to be really pissed at Oikawa, but it’s not.”

“Then why?” Hanamaki presses.

He takes a deep breath. _Here we go._

“Because of you. Because you looked up to him and adored him and cared for him, because that’s the kind of person you are. And then he trampled over that, over everything you had for him. It’s all of this genuineness and sincerity, everything I think is wonderful about you, and he had you rethinking all of these about yourself. With that,” he pauses, “I don’t know what to make of it.”

Matsukawa watches him, and briefly wonders if he should have lied anyway. Hanamaki might be able to tell when he’s lying, but that doesn’t mean he can read all the truths that lay between the lines.

“Oh.” Hanamaki whispers, his confused expression twisted into something else that twisted Matsukawa’s stomach along with it. “Oh,” he repeats, then, “Fuck, I wish…” Helplessly, he trails off, staring at Matsukawa.

“What?” Matsukawa wonders why he’s looking at him like that, so hauntingly sad. “You wish what?”

“I wish you hadn’t told me any of that.”

There it is, the weight of the truth. “Oh.”

“Man, why is this so hard,” Matsukawa hears Hanamaki mumble. “You can’t go around saying things like that, Mattsun.”

“I thought you were always trying to get me to tell the truth, and you’re upset when I do.”

“ _No,_ ” Hanamaki hisses. “You can’t go around and tell me outright that you do care for me, Mattsun.”

 _Oh_ , and suddenly, he’s smiling. Laughing. Crying. All at once. Matsukawa witnesses this sudden change of events. Years of volleyball reflexes, and many more years of being Hanamaki’s main source of support through thick and thin, but here he is, helplessly rooted to the ground.

He wonders if it’d be less distressing if Hanamaki were only crying. He has seen Hanamaki cry more times than he can count over the years, but in front of this hysterical but ragged laughter accompanied by tears streaming down his cheeks, paled by the light, Matsukawa’s body will not respond to him.

“You can’t go around and make me sink deeper for you when I’m trying so hard, so so hard, to get over you.”

 _Oh dear_ , Matsukawa thinks. _Oh god, oh fuck._ He tries to think of what would be best for him to do here, to salvage what he can from this mess. He forces himself to take a step forward towards Hanamaki. Hanamaki takes one back. He takes another step forward, and Hanamaki stays parallel to him, inching towards the sliding door behind him.

“Stop,” Hanamaki whispers. “Let me have this.”

“Sink deeper for me?” Matsukawa has never needed something as much as he needed this confirmation here.

He wears an expression that says exasperation, that says fondness, yet still it digs knives into Matsukawa’s heart. “Exactly. What do you think I’ve been doing all these years?” 

Hanamaki laughs, but he doesn’t budge from the door. It makes the few inches between him and Matsukawa feel unattainably far. “All this while, I have been here, knowing you eat the yolks before the whites of eggs, knowing that if you wince when you hear a pun it means you liked it, knowing your favourite characters are always the pretty and obnoxious bastards who all have pent up emotions and only put on sarcastic fronts, knowing you hate sans serif fonts. I have been here, picking up the dumbest things about you and loving you, That’s what I have been doing.”

Matsukawa draws a long breath, then takes a step back. “Then you could have told me.”

“And then what, Mattsun? Yeah, I could have told you. I could have told you when we graduated, and when Oikawa left, and when Iwaizumi asked if we wanted to start a band for, and when I asked if you wanna move in together, and when Iwaizumi got engaged, and when Oikawa got back. But I didn’t. Where would that have left us, anyway?” Hanamaki’s tears are still glistening in his eyes. The laugh he lets out is no longer maniacal, but instead cold and harsh. “Whenever I tried to bring up anything related to relationships you’d lock yourself away, or make up elaborate jokes to divert the attention. How was I supposed to interpret that, huh, Mattsun?”

Matsukawa doesn’t have an answer.

“Matsukawa Issei,” Hanamaki says sadly. “I know I love you with everything I have, but sometimes I don’t even know if I know you.”

There are no stars out tonight, anyway. This is Tokyo, riddled with city lamps and fleeting lights. It’s not late enough for them to flicker off one by one yet, but here they are. The stars are only excuses to be here. They don’t have to be here, but here they are, over and over watching stars that do not outshine the excitement of Tokyo, choosing each other’s company over and over, in the most highly populated city of the entire country where there are new faces to be met every day. Matsukawa has always known it must mean something, but that was also why it was so terrifying.

Because it meant something to him, to Hanamaki. Because _he_ meant something to him. 

Matsukawa Issei. 27. Liar. Holds desperately onto the very few truths he believes in.

He’s always known how Hanamaki felt, but knowing a truth is not the same as feeling it in your bones. It is seeing how what you want is only a few inches away, but never believing it is within reach. It is looking at Hanamaki like this, and knowing all it took to close this tiniest gap is a step, then one more, but instead watching it stretch out in front of him like an infinite abyss. It is knowing that there has always been an empty spot Hanamaki keeps empty next to him for Matsukawa, but never really believing it’s meant for him.

Here tonight, under the stars that he cannot see, he wants to believe in this more than ever. He wants to believe choosing each other over and over meaning far more things than whatever his thoughts or insecurities says otherwise.

Matsukawa wants to believe.

“I have feelings for you too, I think that’s the right thing to call them.”

Before him, Matsukawa feels like he’s watching an eternity pass. In Hanamaki’s eyes, he feels like he’s watching celestial bodies swirl in their orbits for eons before he reaches an answer.

“No,” Hanamaki says. It’s curt, but there is finality to it.

“No?”

“No.”

What else was Matsukawa supposed to say here, anyway? “Okay.”

A troubled look flickers in his eyes. He slumps onto the floor of their balcony floor and hugs his knees close to him. “Sorry it’s just, looking at Iwaizumi and Oikawa and Akaashi, I don’t know what to make of love anymore. Oikawa and Iwaizumi used to be so in love with each other, linked in a way that was so profound, and yet that still happened. And now we all know Iwaizumi will never — or at least it’ll be hard for him to ever — love Akaashi with the same kind of feverish soulmate kind of way he did Oikawa, I just, don’t know how to believe we could ever work.”

“Why not,” Matsukawa’s throat dries up. “Whatever their problem may be, we’re so different from all of that.”

Hanamaki shakes his head sadly. “Are we, really? They are the two people who I most expect to go against the odds in a pursuit of what they share, and even they have come to this. Where does that leave us?”

“It could’ve left us anywhere, but it leaves us here. And against so many odds, we are still here, together in person. I want to believe this means something to you as much as it means to me.”

It takes Hanamaki a long time to answer.

“You knew, didn’t you, Matsukawa?”

“Know what?”

“Matsukawa, is there a point to this conversation if you’re going to keep deflecting every question I ask?”

Matsukawa deflates a little. Hanamaki’s right, of course. He tends to be.

“Not _know_ , per se. Maybe a hunch.”

“Was it amusing to watch? All these years of you reading into my every action, and letting me put on my show. Was it funny to you, perhaps?”

“ I never dared to dig beyond what those implications meant,” he frowns. “You know I would never do anything like that. Are you always this sarcastic?”

“Are you always this honest with your feelings?”

Matsukawa almost winces, but he holds it together. That was a low blow, even for Hanamaki.

“I thought so.” Hanamaki grits his teeth. “See here?” he asks. “This is exactly what I meant. There’s nowhere for us to go from here, there are no paths for us to meet in the middle. There is only this,” he gestures frustratedly between the two of them, “whatever it is that stops you, and me never being able to understand, not you, not between your lies, not the things that are making you doubt the sanctity of it all.” He chokes back a sob. “I never know what I can do when it comes to you. I never know what I can do for you. It was like this all the time, and it still is.”

Before his eyes, Hanamaki unravels, and the tears on his face that have almost dried comes flowing once more.

But Hanamaki has waded so deep into the stream even though he doesn't see a path where this could possibly lead anywhere. He has done so much and beyond. Matsukawa can do the very least for him, for once.

He spreads his arms out and closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He holds Hanamaki like that for a while, watching him struggle to stop the tears. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“Hey,” Hanamaki whispers in his ears. “Fucking let me in your secrets, will you?”

“I’m trying my best,” he replies sincerely. “Is the answer still a no, then?”

“It’s a ‘not yet’, Issei. With you, I’m always more ridiculously hopeful than I should be.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

He has done so much and beyond for Matsukawa. The least he could do is return the favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeeeeellllllpppp meeeeeeeeeeeee the matsukawa part was probably one of my very favourite scenes of this fic ajhfgajkfhgFJK
> 
> Edit: there's an [ANIMATIC NOW](https://twitter.com/tienwashere/status/1318274839963181058?s=20) please go look at it it'll only take so little of your time i swear it's so beautiful and everything i wanted
> 
> there is also [thIS ART](https://twitter.com/whysosearius/status/1318602661025832960) that this kind of inspired!! go look!!!


	11. city of stars, ii.

hanamaki takahiro.

When Hanamaki walks out of his room in the morning, he doesn’t expect to be greeted by Oikawa scanning him head to toe with scrutiny.

Backing into the kitchen slowly, he keeps his eyes fixed on Oikawa as he reaches for coffee. “What.”

“Are you okay? You look like shit. And when I say shit, I mean more-shit-than-usual kind of thing.” Oikawa looks genuinely concerned. If anything, Hanamaki finds this depressing.

He snaps. “Do you really want to pick a fight first thing with me in the morning, man?”

“No,” Oikawa chirps obediently. “But if you need a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me.”

Hanamaki’s arm freezes on the cereal box. He cranks his head over to Oikawa. “You know what, I might actually have to take you up on that offer.”

***

“This is all such a mess,” Hanamaki drops his head in his hands. “I don’t know how to go about any of this.”

Oikawa nods sagely like he knows what he’s doing. Hanamaki suspects the only thing that’s preventing himself from crumpling onto the floor is how ridiculous Oikawa can be even when he’s not actively trying. “I thought you two were _together_ together when I first came, y’know,” he admits.

Hanamaki chokes. “What, why?”

“It was kind of obvious you two had a thing for each other. Like, compatibility and all that, y’know? But after looking at you both longer it just feels like,” he muses, “obligatory sense of distance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean. I already have to deal with one cryptid bastard who cannot say anything he means straight, if you become like that too I swear to-”

“It means you both are keeping your distance out of some sort of self-imposed fear. Like, you know how friends who are unfamiliar with each other would be more careful with their jokes? That’s what it feels like, but in more of a ‘keeping a safe distance and guarding these imaginary barriers’ kind of way.”

“It’s not like I ever had an option? I didn’t know he returned my feelings till yesterday and agh,” Hanamaki sputters. “It’s just so messy man, why now, of all times?”

“You like him, only to realise he likes you too, what’s messy about that?” Oikawa asks quizzically. “You take a step forward, he takes one in your direction. Whatever it is, you’ve known each other for so long, surely you’d be able to work something out?”

“There was never a place for us to meet in the middle, dude. There’s always so much that keeps him on his toes, so goddamn _hesitant_ about all of it. If I’m as easy to read as you say I am, then he must have always known what I think of him. I never knew what to do about him because I didn’t know what he thought. So if it was never like that, then … then,” he trails off.

“It’s fine,” Oikawa coaxes, before hastily tacking a “probably” at the end. “The two of you have been through so much, just give it some time. You’ll work something out.”

Hanamaki doesn’t feel convinced. Oikawa may be very multitalented when it comes to things, but after this particular relationship pep talk he still feels inconsolable.

“You’re no use, Oikawa.”

“I figured as much, do you want ice cream?” Oikawa is already jangling the house keys, eyes gleaming. “We both have kinda shit love lives right now man. If we don’t treat ourselves now, then when?”

It doesn’t take much to tell Oikawa is doing this more for Hanamaki’s benefit than his own. The gesture already makes Hanamaki feel better.

He smiles. “Ice cream would be good.”

* * *

akaashi keiji.

Akaashi raises his glasses up to the window. 

There is no sun today, but the faint light still shines through, soft rays falling on the flecks of dust that have once again made its way onto his glasses. The rain drizzles in the background, not light enough to go unnoticed, but not loud enough to distract Akaashi from his work either.

There is this thing that comes with wearing glasses — the never-ending misery of dust and particles that hover midair, flecks that somehow or the other all end up on the two panes of glass. It is a perpetual nuisance to all people who have the misfortune of less than perfect eyesight, but it’s easy to get used to, for the process is gradual.

It is only when the glasses are finally taken off to clean, do people ever realise that they’ve been seeing this world behind tainted lenses all this while, all hazy, streaked with things that should not be there. They go about their lives untroubled by something that is always there, but yet so easily unsettled when the knowledge comes to light.

Maybe they then realise they don’t want to go back living a lie.

Gently, Akaashi reaches out for the microfibre cloth that sits neatly in the casing at the corner of his table, more often than not serving him as a paperweight than a home for his glasses. He reminisces about the beginning of his deteriorating eyesight, and wonders if college him would have taken so many risks after each other of reading under the poor campus lighting, if he knows this is the kind of lifestyle he will soon have to succumb to.

 _“Here.”_ A voice from the depths of his memory calls out to him. _“I couldn’t figure out what to get you, but I figured glasses casing and cloths would always be practical. If you have extras lying around you might remember to clean them more.”_

Akaashi remembers huffing in exaggerated annoyance before swiping the gift from Iwaizumi, the sound of his teasing laughter the only vivid memory from years ago.

He wonders about him and Iwaizumi.

Eight years ago, he and Iwaizumi met each other at the lowest of their lows. Akaashi watched Iwaizumi tear down everything he knew to be true about himself and reconstruct it all. He watched this shell that people called a ghost of what heused to be, but then again he has never seen the Iwaizumi Hajime everyone has known for the first 18 years of his life.

In front of him, Akaashi lets him be. There are no expectations of what could be, what _should be_ , for Iwaizumi to live up to.

Akaashi watches him start believing in better things to come. It no longer comes from every fibre of his heart as it once did, they tell him, but every day Iwaizumi still steps out to try again, and Akaashi thinks that is far more heartrendingly admirable than any inherent unwavering faith could have been.

For Akaashi, Iwaizumi does the same. He was never the kind of person to only want to talk volleyball, to prod about what aspirations someone like him with such excellent grades might have in life. He wants to know what music Akaashi has been listening to a lot, what kind of food he had for breakfast, whether matcha chocolates were better than the regular one.

If you asked Akaashi if he loves Iwaizumi, the answer would be a firm yes, full of conviction. Akaashi has only ever wanted one thing, and it is something that Iwaizumi can give him, so effortlessly despite the haunting pain he goes through, when no one else seems to be able to do the same.

Akaashi thinks of a gathering hosted by some mutual friends in the volleyball circle one summer, back in his college days.

“You are not enjoying this.” A chill runs down his spine as he hears the rumble of Iwaizumi’s low voice that was only meant for his ears.

“I didn’t see you around just now,” Akaashi says, scanning Iwaizumi that had appeared out of nowhere.

“That’s because I hadn’t seen you either. Wasn’t really in the mood for mingling around.” Akaashi’s brows furrow immediately upon hearing this. Iwaizumi promptly explains. “No, no one’s pissed me off yet, it’s just me.”

Akaashi studies him. “Bad day, huh?”

Iwaizumi flashes a rueful smile at him. “You too, no?”

Iwaizumi has always been the first and the only one to notice what he really feels, even from when they were barely acquaintances.

“You don’t have to make yourself go through all of this, I can make an excuse up for you, if you’d like.”

Akaashi considers this. It’s a tempting offer. “...thanks, Iwaizumi-san.”

“For you, it’s Iwaizumi.” He beams at Akaashi. It makes his heart flutter like he's 17 all over again.

Akaashi doesn’t know how he’s able to tell. He’s well versed in the art of being diplomatic and polite when need be, enough that it passes even the sharp eyes of people who latch onto the first sight of weakness. So when the frequency in such occurrences rise, it’s not difficult for Akaashi to marvel, over and over, at someone who stands out among the rest.

The feeling of marvelling at someone from afar is so hauntingly and achingly familiar that Akaashi instinctively wants to take a step back, from this kind of blinding warmth that seems to singe anything that dares approach, but Iwaizumi is not a repetition of an old path for him to walk back down. Iwaizumi's warmth is not a coat that he puts on for show, it is a genuine sort of concern for everyone he encounters that he has.

He amicably finds a way for them to both leave. Once they step outside and leave the bubble of idle chatter and forced smiles, Akaashi remembers how to breathe again.

"You're very observant, huh?" He tells him later.

The smile that Iwaizumi gives him is not one he expected, an amused one, but rather one lined with pain. It makes Akaashi oddly protective, despite not knowing much about him at the time.

"Yeah, I guess. I had this one friend who was very good at hiding what he felt, and it took a lot of time to see the cheerful and laid back front he put on.” He swings his head up and laughs. “Sometimes, if I squint, you remind me of him.”

 _A friend_ , Akaashi thinks. “Why?”

“Because of how easy it can be to be around the both of you.”

There is really something about seeing someone laugh like this, and then immediately thinking, _man, I want to be the reason you laugh, but properly, with happiness bubbling from every fibre of your being, and not like this, hollow and haunted by sorrow._

Ask Akaashi at what moment he knew he was completely head in heels. Go on, ask him.

He’ll tell you it was here, this moment.

It starts off like that, with Akaashi wanting to be seen. Maybe this is why it feels so fitting for it to end like this, with him seeing clearly what was going on.

For years he has led himself to believe Iwaizumi could love him the way he loves him. No matter what he has come to realise after everything, this is still true. Iwaizumi does love him, but Akaashi hadn't realised he loves him the same way he loves everyone else, just with significantly more intensity.

In him, Iwaizumi soughts the comfort he seeks, he sees a person that will always be right by him no matter where he goes, how fast he goes. He finds exactly what he wants to find — a person who will not leave him behind.

_The way Oikawa was’t._

There, he has finally let himself think of the unthinkable, the possibility that he didn't want to acknowledge. He has converted a blurry concept that he cannot pinpoint except for the mild sense of unease it plants in him and given a name to it. He has voiced his fears into existence, then given it a name.

Of course he knows he’s not standing in to be Oikawa’s substitute. Iwaizumi was not a selfish person who would put him in a situation like this. All he was, all he could ever be was simply the comfort and warmth. Comfort. That was all to it.

Akaashi sets the microfibre cloth down, and closes the casing, sealing it all away. This is a revelation that doesn’t change anything fundamentally, but it does explain the way Akaashi has been feeling like a floating bobbing upon tides recently. There is no thunderstorm above him that tries to wreck him into pieces against the far shore, nor tidal waves beneath him that threaten to sink him into the deepest end of the sea.

There is simply bobbing up, then down. Up, then down again. It’s uncomfortable, and it gets more tiring with every second that trickles by. Maybe Akaashi just wants it to stop.

The rain continues to fall. Akaashi watches from his window a multicoloured umbrella, through the path that leads up to their flat, then ending under his windowsill where his gaze cannot follow. Gently, he shakes his head, turning his head back to the stack of papers on his table.

The glasses may be clean for the time being, but the chilly temperature that hits it once it leaves the warmth of Akaashi’s palms has fogged it up once more. He decides there’s no point cleaning them again. A bit of fog can’t do any harm.

Akaashi heads for the door. The love of his life should be here soon.

* * *

oikawa tooru.

Oikawa thinks he’s early, but it turns out Akaashi is even earlier.

“Hi,” he slides into the seat opposite him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Akaashi calls Oikawa out of nowhere one afternoon, and asks to meet up. “I have something to talk to you about,” he tells him. 

Oikawa has many questions, like how Akaashi got his number, for instance, like what would you possibly have to talk to me about, but he says alright. Alright, because the venn diagram of their relationship only overlaps so little, and in the middle of it, stands Iwaizumi.

They both get coffee. Oikawa gets a latte, Akaashi wants his black. 

“It’s something that’s hard for you to say, isn’t it?” Oikawa tells him after watching him struggle several times for words and come up at a loss. “You can just say it, whatever it is. I won’t be bothered.”

“Why did you come back to Japan?”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Is this about you and Iwaizumi? I didn’t come back here to get in your way or anything-”

“No,” Akaashi cuts him off. “It’s not about that. I was just … wondering.”

Oikawa studies him and finds oceans of weariness in his eyes. Before him is a stranger, barely an acquaintance, yet the haunted look in his eyes makes Oikawa want to help, with whatever that may have happened to make someone so desolate.

“I miss him,” he says. “Before we were lovers or exes or any of those, we were best friends. He was, and still is, I suppose, someone I would trust with my entire life, someone who I didn’t know a world without.”

Akaashi’s tone is strangled, like he’s trying to choke back something. “Then why … why did you leave?”

“Because it felt too good to be true. Because it feels too wonderful - you know how it feels like to be around, or with Iwaizumi - and it was too terrifying to bear. Everything in me was screaming about how this was too brilliant, it would never last, and when it falls apart I would never survive it.”

“But you said you’d trust him with your entire life. Why did you have so little trust in the both of you?”

Akaashi is waiting for an answer, Oikawa knows. But instead, he lets the clinking sound of the coffee shop fill the silence. _He’s right_ , Oikawa thinks, tensing up. _Of course he is_. All these years he’s been battling imaginary fears, and hypotheses that he sowed in his head, watered by all the nagging doubts of things he didn’t have to worry about. At the end of day, all it took for him to see beyond them was the announcement of an engagement. Everyone knew, everyone could see. Except for him.

“Because I was an idiot, I suppose.” Oikawa releases the tension from his shoulders. “When I heard you two were getting married, it felt solid. Not like in the sense that he’s getting away from me, mind you, but like here it is, we have completely severed ties. He’s made one of the biggest decisions in his life, and I will not get to hear about it from him. This is what it means to completely cut ties.”

“Then you’re okay with this?”

“Okay with what?”

“Him, getting married to someone else.”

Oikawa nods. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“Why?”

“He’s happy now, isn’t he?” Oikawa laughs. “He’s chasing after the things he love, he’s managed to build a world of his own, find comfort within that life-”

“Even though you’re not part of it?”

Oikawa wonders how you can keep a smile you fall in love with. How do you preserve ephemeral objects, like the gentle breeze of summer, like the glimmer of a rainbow after a pour, fleeting things like the brush of fingers, the ghost of smiles, fond stares. There is always a different ring to things shortlived that makes them.

There is something about the longing and yearning that makes the prospect of things you simply cannot have appealing. Oikawa knows this, Oikawa knows this better than anyone.

But life is not sunshine and rainbows, life is the rain that sweeps away love professions written with chalk on sidewalks, tides that sweep away letters written in the sand; beautiful things do not last. They go, but they leave you with scenes that you can tuck away in your head, with songs that will echo for eternity to come. 

That should be enough.

“Yeah.” His right to claim anything does not exist anymore. All that is left behind are these memories of what used to be. If he gets to stand here from afar and watch, if the blessings he gives will go towards that smile Oikawa is finally brave enough to protect, this is enough. He is content. “If he’s happy, that’s enough. You asked me what I came back to Japan for, and here it is. I came back to know he’s truly happy where he is, and selfishly, to know that maybe I can also be part of this happiness.”

“But you’re here.” Oikawa takes a deep breath. “You’re here, and around you he’s everything he isn’t around me. Iwaizumi doesn’t have to be cautious around you, because you’ve earned his trust. That is something I could no longer ask for.” Something twists in Oikawa’s gut, but he keeps his voice steady. 

He waits for a reply, but Akaashi has sunken into silence. “So please, Akaashi,” he says. “Please give him what I cannot give. Please give him the happiness he deserves.”

Oikawa’s latte is still untouched. He takes a sip, but it’s already lukewarm.

Quietly, he says, “Sorry. For laying all of this on you.”

“No, it’s alright. I asked. You answered.” Akaashi fiddles with his fingers. When he stops, reaching out for his coffee, Oikawa realises they’re shaking a little.

“You’re plotting something. You’re going to do something big.”

“Who knows.”

“Why are you telling me, of all people?” Oikawa doesn’t understand. Of all people Akaashi should be weary about, he’d be right at the very top of the list.

“No matter what happens, do you promise you’ll be there for Iwaizumi, Oikawa?” Akaashi’s expression is serious.

Oikawa’s eyes narrow. “You’re marrying the guy, Akaashi.” 

“But do you?”

“Yes. I can’t promise he’ll let me, but I came back promising to try. That-” he sighs, “-is all we’ll have, most of the time.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Silence, once more. Oikawa’s thoughts trail to Iwaizumi as he studies Akaashi, wondering how to piece the memories of an Iwaizumi that existed from his childhood that has now grown into someone else, entirely unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, how to piece all of that with this person that sits in front of him. In their silence, Oikawa wonders if Akaashi is wondering the same thing about him too.

He looks at Akaashi, and thinks about what Matsukawa told him the first time he met Iwaizumi after coming back to Japan.

_“But he doesn’t look happy. He looks content. I’ve seen what it’s like for him to be happy, and it isn’t this.”_

“Are you okay?” Oikawa asks.

“As good as it’ll get, I suppose.”

“Does it bother you? That I’m here in Japan?”

Akaashi seems to think about it, then shakes his head, letting his black curls fall into his eyes. “I _have_ been thinking of something as of late, but it’s not you. I believe you, somehow.”

“Even though you don’t know me?”

“Even so.” Akaashi leans over, nudging Oikawa’s latte towards him with a playful gleam in his eyes. “People who like latte get automatic passes in my book. Surely there can’t be much harm a weak latte drinker could possibly do?”

Oikawa scowls at him, which invites a laugh. “I hate people who drink their coffee black, always so high-and-mighty, thinking they’re superior or something.”

A smile creeps up Akaashi’s face, breaking what remains of the tension in the air. But Oikawa doesn’t miss the steely determination in his eyes. It means something. Oikawa doesn’t know what, but something tells him he’ll find out soon.

* * *

iwaizumi hajime.

It was Iwaizumi who asked if Hanamaki and Matsukawa would start a band with him.

Iwaizumi’s always had a very all or nothing approach to life. Since he was eight, his head spins melodies out of thin air when he looks at Oikawa Tooru. He thinks of chords rich and heavenly, of everything sweet and fond, bright and brilliant. He falls in love, first with music, then with Oikawa, and eventually volleyball. He chains knots them together with verses, bridges, choruses and interludes, and he weaves songs out of sheer love. Take the most essential part of the song away, what is Iwaizumi left with?

When Oikawa leaves, Iwaizumi doesn’t forget how to sing as evidence may suggest. Rather, he forgets what it’s like to love without it hurting. He forgets how to sing without feeling like there’s dust in his lungs, how to play the guitar without the strings feeling like they’re made of blades, how to hear music and not think of Oikawa’s laugh, then shrill static that kills the rest of the music.

But when Iwaizumi wants to start a band, he wants all of that to go away. When he loves, he puts everything he has into it. He wants to sever Oikawa from all things he loves — he can take one thing Iwaizumi loves away from him, but he _shouldn’t_ take everything he has. Maybe it’s to make a point about how he can still love in his own fiery way, maybe it’s just a stubborn venture to tell himself there’s no point in dwelling, there is only moving on. There can be a flurry of wrong notes when you perform, but the only way to look is to forward, the only thing to do is to carry on.

He never stops wondering though, what was it that he said that day, what was it between the harmonies and lyrics, that made Oikawa decide that Iwaizumi wasn’t even worthy of a goodbye

_“Are you okay?” he asks Oikawa._

_“That was beautiful, I love it.” Oikawa wipes the tears away. “Thank you,” he tells Iwaizumi_

_Iwaizumi presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’re welcome.”_

“Thank you” were the last words Oikawa had for him before he trampled over Iwaizumi’s heart. He wonders how he should even feel about this. There’s no I love you, there’s no I’m sorry, there’s only gratitude, an acknowledgement of everything Iwaizumi may or may not be to him.

And that’s not enou-

_“Sure.”_

Another memory flickers past his head.

_“For real?” Iwaizumi blinks at his two friends. “I didn’t expect you guys to be so okay with this, considering how it’s a lot of commitment and stuff, y’know?”_

_“Not like I got anywhere else to showcase these moves, man,” Hanamaki grins._

_Iwaizumi gapes, then diverts his attention. “Matsukawa?”_

_He shrugs in response. “If it’s going to make you happy I don’t see why not.”_

There’s something about growing up next to someone so blinding. It leads you to a point where you’ve long grown accustomed to dazzling luminosity at all times that it easily dulls everything in contrast. It takes time to readjust to see in the dark, but it’s when Iwaizumi eventually manages does he realise how much he’s been missing out all this time.

“It’s your engagement party tomorrow.” From across the coffee table — the one they reserve for the _‘We cheer and hype ourselves up after what seems to be a successful concert and then realise we have to go through all of this stress again very soon because this is the path we chose, lucky us’_ celebration parties, or other special events they deem congratulatory — Hanamaki purrs at Iwaizumi. “How are we feeling?”

“Is this your version of a bachelor’s party? If yes it needs more work.”

“Nah, that can wait until you’re getting married for real. For now, this’ll have to do.”

“Where’s Akaashi?” Matsukawa injects. “I thought he said he’ll come.”

“He’s got this sudden meeting with a friend. Asks us to go on without him.”

Hanamaki kicks Iwaizumi under the table. “Hey, trying to deflect my question? I asked how you’re feeling. Big day and all.”

“I’m fine,” he protests. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh I don’t know, settling down and all seems kind of terrifying.”

Iwaizumi squints at Matsukawa, who decidedly does not squint back. He sighs. “Is this an attempt to get me to talk about crappy-kawa again?”

“Maybe,” Hanamaki’s eyes are practically _gleaming_. “Is it, Iwaizumi?” he asks sweetly.

“Why are you all trying to get me to talk about him, what the fuck. I thought we were over this.”

“Everyone?”

So _now_ Matsukawa dares to look him in the eye, Iwaizumi seethes. “First you two, then Keiji, and now you’re back at it again.”

“Akaashi? Why?”

“I think he wants me to forgive him or something.”

Silence settles among them, leaving only the jazz music of the coffee shop and clinking of ice against glasses, stirred with a metal straw.

“Do you not want to?” Matsukawa eventually asks.

“I don-” Iwaizumi begins on impulse, but the genuineness in the eyes of his friends anchors the remnants of anxiety that has been waltzing in his head for days. “I don’t know,” he says in a small voice. “But if I really think about it, I think a small part of me wants to, no matter how much I feel betrayed by that part of me.”

“But it’s your engagement party tomorrow, Iwaizumi. Despite everything that’s gone and past, you’re going to have your happy ending. Wouldn’t settling the score with Oikawa feel like you’re really moving past and closing the door on a past event?” Matsukawa props his head onto his hand before he continues. “Do you really want this to hang over you?”

Does Iwaizumi really want a ghost of his past to lurk at the windows of his memory, haunting him when he least expects it? Does Iwaizumi want every sight of Oikawa to be steeped with unquantifiable pain, a paralysing reminder of how he was never enough for someone to stay, how he might never be? Does Iwaizumi really not want closure to this all, to gently push the window into the frame and turn the handles that will lock it, draw curtains over a past chapter and bid the sorrows of his younger self farewell?

Iwaizumi has the answer to all these questions. Iwaizumi had the answer to all these questions for years, but it’s buried so deep that to dig it out, he’d have to disturb the peace that has built itself on the top despite the shaky foundation underneath. 

Yet, there is truth in every word his friends say. 

He’s already here, he’s already right where he needs to be. If he gently shakes the peace off, he can rebuild it all from scratch. It’s going to take effort and time, but at least he’ll never have to spend every waking hour worrying the tower’s going to fall. Maybe that makes it all worth it.

“Huh,” Iwaizumi lets out a low chuckle. “I _am_ here, I _am_ getting married to Keiji. Do I really have to be scared of Oikawa?”

“Oikawa’s some wuss that cries when he sees cheese, you don’t have to be afraid of someone like that,” Hanamaki snorts.

“Cheese?”

“Yeah, he had a meltdown at a konbini some time ago at cheese,” Matsukawa grins.

Iwaizumi’s plenty baffled, but at the same time, it just reminds him of how simple things can be, as long as he willed it as such.

 _Tomorrow_ , he tells himself _. Tomorrow, I’m going to tell Oikawa Tooru I forgive him._

He’s got this amazing support group after all. Iwaizumi doesn’t have to be scared.


	12. engagement party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looped this as i wrote this chapter lol [ [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/7oVTuKpq4PXT5VhYa8I6Jx?si=DCflBjmFQ9yEfCAJ6Bnu5w) / [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-Bzhpm8h0o) ]

akaashi keiji.

Words are all Akaashi has ever had.

For as long as he can remember, they have built fortresses in his head, spun worlds on his loom of imagination, paved out paths of cobble stone for the emotions that swirl in his head to walk past, to reach others. Some people think in images, in organised lists and charts, but Akaashi’s thoughts have always flowed in streams of words, phrases, paragraphs. Language is a social construct, created for humans to channel their innermost fervent wishes and ardent feelings into something almost tangible, kept alive through memories.

Akaashi pulls Iwaizumi to a private corner of a small bar, the place booked to host their engagement party.

Engagement party. A celebration meant for everyone who knows the happy couple to rejoice in the joining about to happen of two souls, who have stumbled against each other and, against all odds, decided to stay. But here he is, trying to speak over the cheerful chatter of the party and the melodies of the piano, with every intention to break the heart of the person he loves.

“Hajime.” He takes a deep breath. “I can’t marry you.”

“Huh?” Iwaizumi gapes. “What?”

“I can’t marry you.”

“What do you mean? Of course you can.” Iwaizumi lets out a confused laugh. “You proposed, I said yes.” He reaches out for Akaashi’s hands, but Akaashi shrinks away, refusing to make contact.

“Things weren’t the same, then.”

“Keiji, please, whatever it is you’re worried about, wedding nerves or whatever, we can work it out.” Iwaizumi is pleading at this point. Akaashi thinks he can hear his own heart break.

“No, it isn’t like that,” Akaashi shakes his head, the desperation beginning to sink its claws in him. “All ths while with me, you’ve only been finding comfort. It feels like I'm this safe haven for you to return to, but that’s not how you can be. Within me, you have only found solace and support. You can do better than me, Hajime. You can find someone that can make you feel alive for, not lulled by a sense of security I gave you.”

“Is that how you’ve always felt? Is this what you’ve always thought about me, and us?” With every word Iwaizumi says, the anguish fills his eyes. Akaashi watches his entire body tense, his two hands that he has unconsciously tangled together shake. “I don’t understand. You’re comfort and solace itself, and everything beyond that. I do love you, Keiji. I would do anything for you. Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me we can work this out and put this past us.”

“There’s nothing for us to work out, Hajime, why can’t you see that? All along it’s only been us wrapped in this bubble. You do love me, Hajime. I have never doubted that-”

“Then why-”

“Because you love the world, and everything else to grace the world with the same kind of intensity. You have so much love to gift, that it’s easy to believe take every dose of what you feel and think it must be everything, because there’s no way someone could love _that_ much, but you can, and I’ve seen how you can light up even brighter than you are around people, and Hajime,” Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see the tears that are forming at the corners of Iwaizumi's eyes and turning his irises emerald under the light, “It’s not going to be with me.”

“With who, then?” The words slip out excruciatingly slow. “Oikawa?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Is this what you’ve always thought I was seeing you as? A replacement for Oikawa Tooru, because apparently I’m nothing without him?” Resentment fills his eyes, but Akaashi can tell it isn’t directed at him. It drains out the remnants of disbelief. “Are you like everyone else too, Keiji? Do you also think that Oikawa is all I could only ever need, and now that he’s back it’s fitting for you to retreat? This isn’t a competition. You don’t need to compare yourself to a ghost of the past. You don’t have to ”

“This isn’t about me and how I measure up to Oikawa.”

“So you’re saying it’s about me, then.” Iwaizumi’s body goes limp. “It's about you not feeling like I love you enough, and you want to leave. You want to call all of this off.”

“We can still be friends. I’ll always be your friend, Hajime. I’ll always be here for you.”

He wonders if Iwaizumi can hear anything he says at this point. “Please don’t leave me behind. Please stop leaving me behind.” His voice is soft. Fragile. “Please, Keiji. We’ll be alright. We can try again, whatever your worries are, whatever it is that I’m not doing enough, let’s solve them. Please.”

Iwaizumi's face is pale, and he’s given up effort in trying to hide the trembling all over. Akaashi knows this is it. If he stays a moment longer, he’ll cave and go back to telling Iwaizumi, telling _Iwaizumi_ they can work past this.

 _I love you._ Akaashi thinks to himself desperately, as he watches Iwaizumi fall apart before his eyes. _I love you so, so much. And this is why I have to leave you. Because you deserve to find someone who you can really love._

Iwaizumi takes a step forward towards him, but Akaashi still isn’t done taking the final glance, he's not done saying goodbye, even though he knows he will never let Iwaizumi hear any of this. 

_I love you, that’s why I’m trying to protect that smile of yours. Because it can shine brighter, with someone else. It doesn’t have to be me._

Iwaizumi takes another step forward, and Akaashi is too stunned to run. His calloused fingers brush the skin of Akaashi’s arm, and the memories of so many songs Iwaizumi has sung for him on stage, from the comfort of the home they share, his laughter that makes the world a brighter place to be in flood back. He doesn’t want to leave it behind. He doesn’t have to.

_I love you, and that’s why these memories are enough to tide me through the solitude that’s going to follow, as long as it needs to be._

Akaashi thinks of everything else he wants to say, but the words that have flocked to his mind has melded into an ocean of yearning, of wanting to reach out to this figure that looks so scared, so small right now, to wrap him in an embrace and never let go, to tell him _I love you, Iwaizumi Hajime_. “I’m sorry.” Akaashi whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

_“So please, Akaashi,” he says. “Please give him what I cannot give. Please give him the happiness he deserves.”_

As Akaashi draws his hand out from Iwaizumi’s clutch, Oikawa’s words ring in his head. He steps across the room, trying to draw as little attention from everyone, but heads are still turned, confused gazes that land on him, then to Iwaizumi, then back to him, this time coated with shock. He passes Oikawa and briefly catches his eye. Oikawa’s expression is cold, unreadable at first, but it melts away into a questioning look, then a faint nod. Akaashi gives him a slight tilt of the head, something that resembles a sad smile, and pushes the glass doors that will seal this act.

Akaashi doesn’t turn back.

Words are all Akaashi has, but they too have forsaken him. This is where he’ll have to let Iwaizumi go, a point where there is nothing else even his words can do for him. 

* * *

oikawa tooru.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Hanamaki tells Oikawa, once when they get the invitation for Iwaizumi and Akaashi’s engagement party, twice when they’re choosing outfits and taking turns to press the creases out of cotton shirts and suits, many more times in between, up till they’re right outside the bar. “It might hurt.”

Oikawa’s reply is always the same. “It’s just an engagement party. What could go wrong?”

As he watches this strange series of events unfold before his eyes, he sighs. _Everything, apparently._

Akaashi Keiji pushes the glass door open, and steps outside the bar, leaving only the sounds of leather shoes against the stone sidewalk until it trails away from them. 

The banter, the laughs all die away with Akaashi’s leaving. Everyone freezes, standing there, watching each other, Iwaizumi, then each other again with horror. They wait for someone to say something, but no one dares to. No one has heard the conversation. No one has even _seen_ them having a conversation in the first place, until Akaashi strides out wordlessly, and Iwaizumi looks like he’s been torn apart.

Everyone is holding their breath, waiting for someone to come and ease away the tension. Oikawa almost does it, but when he debates if it’s really his place to do anything, Matsukawa speaks. “Party’s over, thank you for coming.”

It’s not groundbreaking. It’s not much.

But it’s enough to open a hole in this balloon of tension that was about to burst. People start to move again, throwing the occasional look back at Iwaizumi whenever they dare. Hanamaki has swept into motion, gathering everyone from the furthest ends of the rooms and herds them towards the exit.

Oikawa marvels at this version of Hanamaki in silence, a perfect balance of cheerful yet firm. He reminds Oikawa of shepherd dogs, herding down a bunch of sheep towards a new pasture, over new things to fawn over, don’t stay here, don’t stay here to gawk at my friend.

“Oikawa,” Hanamaki calls out to him, then jerks his chin in a direction. Oikawa’s eyes follow the trail and land on Iwaizumi. His heart sinks with the next word Hanamaki utters.“Go.”

“What?” he hisses. “Why me? You go.”

“I’m busy,” Hanamaki hisses back. “Go on, don’t just stand and stare.”

“Mattsun,” he suggests. Anyone. Just not him. He pleads Hanamaki with his eyes.

“Oikawa.” He calls, and Oikawa listens. “We’re both terrified. Please contribute to something. For once.”

_For once._

Oikawa hates all of this. He hates how it shouldn’t be him, of all people, who has forgotten how fragile Iwaizumi can be under his spiky exterior. It should be Hanamaki, who has an uncanny ability to stay calm at all times, or Matsukawa, who always knows what’s the best thing to say, even if it may not be the very thing people want to hear.

With every step he takes forward, he wants to take three more back. Yet, Oikawa knows very well that the shadow that clouds Matsukawa’s and Hanamaki’s gaze, hidden behind the cheerful smiles that have been displayed to everyone else is no other than fear itself. In the centre of this hurricane, is Iwaizumi, who needs them more than ever. Oikawa’s friends are holding down the fort for him, a path cleared out for him. He’s just as scared as any of them. He could run. He has always run, and left everyone else in the dust.

But he is here; after all these years and against all odds, he is here.

“Are you okay?” Keeping his voice low, he kneels beside Iwaizumi, who is still gazing into the far off distance. “What happened?”

“Keiji broke up with me.” Iwaizumi’s vision focuses once more, and he stares fixedly into Oikawa’s eyes. “Happy now, Oikawa? You got what you wanted.”

Under the dim lights of the bar, Oikawa can see the tears that glisten in his eyes, the shine on his cheeks that come from the light reflecting off water, the tense in his face that Oikawa knows all too well, that tells him he’s one step away from losing his composure. Oikawa winces, wondering if this is what he looked like when he left too. 

“I never wanted this.” Oikawa’s voice is small. He feels small, next to the entirety of this situation. _It’s not your fault,_ he tells himself. _You didn’t prompt any of this to happen, you never wanted to break up any of what they had, it’s not your fault_ . But Iwaizumi’s stare morphs into a glare with every passing second, and another voice sounds in his head. _But if you never came back, none of this would have happened. They were happy, they were moving on with their lives, together, now Akaashi has left to make place for you, and here once more, you have broken the heart of someone you love._

“Absolutely. You never wanted this, and I’m just supposed to believe all of that, and take your word for it, because you are _so_ trustworthy, _so_ reliable, and you give people _so much_ security.” Iwaizumi’s voice does not rise in the slightest. It makes the way his face twists up with anger and grief far more unnerving to look at. “You sashay into my life thinking you’re entitled to any of this and you fuck everything up, then leave when you're satisfied at the glimpse of everything in ruins? How fun for you, Oikawa.”

Oikawa desperately wishes he’d shout, or scream, anything that wasn’t this, anything that wasn’t hollow stares and dreamy smiles that throws daggers into Oikawa’s heart. But there is no outburst, there are only strings and lines of thoughts from the abyss of his mind, each one driving the weight of accusations drawn from full truths into him. There are only trees Oikawa had tended to and watered with his fears bearing fruit with all of Iwaizumi’s sincere account of heartbreak.

There are hollers, there are no bellows. There is only this, one heartbroken Iwaizumi Hajime, disintegrating before Oikawa’s eyes.

Watching him, Oikawa thinks of disasters that strike and the ashes that remain, the only proof of any glory ever existing before. He thinks of how delicate all of this is. By his hand or by the hurricane that has yet to die down, there is nothing to stop Iwaizumi from crumbling before his eyes. 

“He’s gone now. He’s not going to return. Don't you think this is all so familiar, Oikawa? Tooooru?” Iwaizumi drawls, letting the syllables roll off his tongue, then spill like poison over Oikawa’s heart.

Kneeling there, lesser than a foot away from Iwaizumi, Oikawa forgets how to breathe.

“I loved you so goddamn much, and you left me. And now I love him, and he’s also gone. Why does this keep happening to me? What am I supposed to take away from all of this?” Iwaizumi’s hands reach up to wipe away a single tear that has betrayed him. Choking back a sob, he continues. “That there is nothing in me worth staying for, nothing in me worth trying for, that I am the only common factor here, and everyone I ever grow to love will undoubtedly leave, isn’t it?”

Oikawa wonders how many times can a heart break until it reaches past the point of repair. _There is solace, perhaps_ , he thinks as he watches Iwaizumi choke back angry tears, to know that he will soon have the answer, because watching Iwaizumi like this is probably the most heartbreaking thing he can even fathom.

Behind Oikawa, a pair of strong but gentle hands rest on his arms, pulling him up. In front of him, he can see Matsukawa dragging Iwaizumi away from him.

“That’s enough, come on, Iwaizumi, it’s been a long day. We’re going home.”

“Home? What’s that?”

“Iwaizumi. We know you’re hurting but there’s no need to be sarcastic here. We’re just trying to help.”

“Not him.”

“Iwaizumi. Please.”

Oikawa and Hanamaki watch in silence as Matsukawa drags Iwaizumi away from them, who tries to fight back but fails miserably.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

When they’re sure Iwaizumi and Matsukawa are out of earshot, the both of them speak at the same time. “You go first,” Hanamaki sighs.

“I couldn't help him.” Oikawa’s voice cracks. “There he was, looking so desolate, and I- there was nothing for me to say, because he’s right, all of it. I hurt him, and what right do I have to force myself back into his life?”

“We should have been here for you. It’s alright. It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

“Then what _can_ I do for him?” Oikawa turns around to look at Hanamaki, searching his eyes for an answer, but instead Hanamaki puts both of his palm on Oikawa’s cheeks.

“Look at me,” he says.

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

“Shhhh, listen to me. All of this, it fucking sucks. Everything’s kinda horrible right now, but it’s just, isn’t really anyone’s fault, you know? It’s the kind of ‘wrong person right time’ thing. It doesn’t matter if you came along or not. You got over yourself and everything that scared you shitless, and _that_ , Oikawa, makes all the goddamn difference.”

Oikawa stares.

“I need ice cream.”

Hanamaki removes his hands from Oikawa’s face to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I feel like we’ve been left behind by Matsukawa to tie up all the odd ends here, but after that, yeah, me too.”


	13. audition.

matsukawa issei.

Matsukawa has always gotten along well with Akaashi.

To be fair, it had never required much effort on his end. It was very difficult to  _ not _ get along with Akaashi. Doing so would require channeling a lot of asshole energy, or jealousy, whichever fueled you more, and even then it would still be difficult to genuinely despise the sheer sincerity that brimmed with Akaashi’s presence wherever he went.

That was all there was to Akaashi, and somehow, that made all the difference.

There was simply nothing you could single out to pick at him, because of how genuine it is for him to be. A liar like Matsukawa could never achieve that, and this is why, he supposes, he respects him so much. There was an inkling of uneasiness, in knowing Iwaizumi does not love Akaashi the same way Akaashi loves him, with all of that sincerity he has to offer, but also solace in knowing there was someone like this who would always be by Iwaizumi’s side.

This was selfish of him, perhaps, but then again, he had always been Iwaizumi’s friend first, Akaashi’s friend second.

On day one of Iwaizumi’s Akaashi rehabilitation, Matsukawa lets the man mourn. But mourning or no, Matsukawa is a stickler for regular mealtimes. Things like ‘consuming enough food to maintain bodily functions’ and ‘having enough energy to sit in the same position staring vacantly into a wall all day without speaking a single word’ are not mutually exclusive. If anything, Matsukawa thinks they go well with each other. Absorb food. Transform into energy. Grief.

Iwaizumi does not give a shit about Matsukawa’s ideologies. Matsukawa knows this. But he also knows how to deal with Iwaizumi when he’s in a state like this. He’s been here, done this once. He can do it again.

After Iwaizumi skips breakfast  _ and _ lunch, refusing to answer all of Matsukawa’s attempts to contact him, a wooden door standing tall between them, Matsukawa threatens to pick the lock. The door opens, an arm slides out the door into Matsukawa’s sight.

He doesn’t say much, but when he places the plate of spaghetti onto the outstretched palm, the vines that have been wrapped around his heart for the past day.

“Do you want to talk?” he offers, even though he knows what the answer will be. Iwaizumi closes the door in his face, but the next time it opens, the plate is empty, and there is a single note attached to it. On top of it, writes “no”.

Even so, Iwaizumi remains in the same state for several more days. Matsukawa has his own interpretation of what could have happened, but there wasn’t much for him to go on. There was an engagement party. There was the disappearance of the two people who should’ve been in the spotlight for the night. Then, they are found in a secluded corner, away from public eyes, engaging in a conversation that results in the exit of one. All he’s left with is this hollowed out shell of Iwaizumi (again), who has been left behind (again).

Staring at Iwaizumi’s closed door, Matsukawa mutters. “I hope you step on legos, Akaashi.”

***

Matsukawa doesn’t  _ really _ hope Akaashi steps on legos. He may be Akaashi’s friend second, but still a friend nonetheless. 

After Iwaizumi refuses his meals, Matsukawa starts to wonder if it’d be out of place for him to reach out to Akaashi, to check in on him. Over the years, Akaashi has never reached out to Matsukawa for emotional support, but Matsukawa feels like this has more to do with Akaashi’s personality than their relationship. He isn’t sure. Akaashi’s always had Iwaizumi too, and now they no longer have each other.

He frowns and his phone, finger hovering over the chat between him and Akaashi. The more he thinks about it, the more he realises Akaashi would do the same for him, and he presses send.

Matsukawa:  _ You ok? _

He tells himself ther eis no need to wait for a reply — Akaashi has never been someone who’s quick at replying, somewhat obsessed with task focus and likes to clear things out one by one, instead of having schedules overlap — but he doesn’t really manage to settle down with everything he does, every vibration from the phone sending him into jitters.

He wonders — when he’s half flicking through channels on Iwaizumi’s television and half paying attention to any signs of life that come from Iwaizumi’s room — where Akaashi could be right now.

This has been the flat Akaashi and Iwaizumi have shared over the past years, after living alone for even longer. There could be friends Akaashi could go to, maybe from his editorial job, or from his high school, university days, but in Matsukawa’s memories, Akaashi was always with them.

He wasn’t a part of the band, but he stopped by pretty often to see what they were doing and provide his thoughts that usually tipped on the side of blatant admiration; he went with them on these outings that they invited him under the basis of “evening out the sleeping arrangements”, but they all knew it was because they enjoyed having him, and his unexpectedly snide sense of humour around; Akaashi being Akaashi, would be the kind of friend that first comes to mind when he’d need help, because you know he would be there, no questions asked, no judgement, only the entirety of a brand of warmth that was only known as Akaashi Keiji.

Matsukawa wants to be angry on Iwaizumi’s behalf. He wants to yell at the person who proposed to his friend, and then decided he could no longer do it, but that person is Akaashi, who he knows would never set out to hurt another soul if he had the choice. So where does that knowledge leave Matsukawa?

Here, apparently, on Iwaizumi’s couch, waiting for a text from the person who casted this eerie silence in a place he should be calling home with his absence.

The phone jingles with a notification sound. Matsukawa lunges for his phone.

Akaashi:  _ No, but I will be. Staying at a friend’s for now. _

Matsukawa hadn’t even noticed how tense he had been until he let it all go at once. The screen blinks at him with the moving dots that indicated Akaashi was typing.

Akaashi:  _ You’re thinking about how to ask me what happened, aren’t you? _

Matsukawa:  _ Yes. _

He doesn’t want to lie to Akaashi.

Akaashi:  _ I think he can be happier, that’s all. Just not with me. _

_ Just not with me _ .

_Oh_ _Akaashi_ , Matsukawa thinks. He’s not a touchy feely person, but he thinks about how he would give Akaashi the biggest of hugs if he were here in person. But now Matsukawa only has words. He’ll have to make do.

“Can I do anything for you? If you ever need me you always know where to find me.”

“Take care of Iwaizumi, and all of you :) Will be in touch eventually.”

Eventually, huh. Matsukawa can work with that.

“Take care, Akaashi.”

* * *

iwaizumi hajime.

If you asked Iwaizumi what it felt like when Oikawa left then, and what it feels like to have Akaashi leave now, two people who Iwaizumi had at one point been ready to spend the rest of his life with, there would only one answer — he doesn’t know.

His head has been spinning since that day, a jumble of thoughts and snippets of conversations that flutter away before he has the chance to hold on to them. Days and nights have melded together, only set apart by three firm knocks on the door at regular intervals, then a plate, held by a firm hand that refused to take no for an answer.

Iwaizumi wants everything that swims in his head to shut up, but the discord in his head accompanies every waking hour, sinking its fangs into him and refuses to leave. He tries sleeping it off, but even slumber does not manage to silence the low groans of sorrow that rumble within his ribcage. Lying in the same position for hours, Iwaizumi lets the sky from his barely see-through curtains go from dawn to dusk, twilight to pitchblack darkness. He phases in and out of a dreamy trance-like state. The line between reality and his imagination is so thin, but it’s so easy to tell which is which; in reality, there is no Akaashi Keiji by his side.

He leaves the room when Matsukawa leaves for home, or when he’s fallen asleep. While he doesn’t really think Matsukawa will sit him down and insist they talk about his feelings or whatever (Iwaizumi does not  _ feel _ , he simply  _ is _ now), he’s not going to risk the potential threats of confrontation. With every step he takes, he almost sees Akaashi’s glasses lying on the table, a cup of coffee, black, the exact way Akaashi would like it. Sometimes he sees what the two of them had been, with arms wrapped around waists and heads resting on shoulders. 

He blinks. They vanish.

_ [ I can’t marry you. ] _

_ Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, it can’t be real. Any moment now, Akaashi is going to walk through that door and tell Iwaizumi it was the nerves! It’s not his fault, it’s not any of their faults, it wasn’t Iwaizumi who wasn’t enough to make Akaashi stay, it wasn’t anything he did wrong, it was- _

_ [ And Hajime, It’s not going to be with me. ] _

_ It was, what, exactly? What is this joy in himself that Akaashi had seen when Iwaizumi was not with him, and what on earth did that mean? Was it Oikawa Tooru? Why is it always Oikawa Tooru? _

Time heals everything. This is a truth Iwaizumi has always known.

Yet, knowing a truth is not the same as feeling it in your bones. It is a low buzz in your ear telling you that everything you are waiting for, everything you are expecting is lying out there, but there is no genuine conviction that it will really come. It is difficult to simply unlearn years worth of habits, after all.

When there is a knock on the door Iwaizumi expects it to be Matsukawa, who may technically have a key, but has the decency to knock as a signal. He waits for the door to unlock, for Matsukawa’s firm footsteps to tread on the planks and send whatever sign of life he can into this sorry excuse of a house.

It doesn't come, the knocking ensues. Then, a voice.

“Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa is not the person he expects on his doorstep, not after that one embarrassing outburst that he unleashed on him the night of the engagement party, not when he’s in this current shattered state that Oikawa never hung around long enough to see back then, not when his name still sends Iwaizumi’s stomach into a tangle of feelings he can’t separate into one, then another.

He goes out into the hallway to take a closer look, and there he is, Oikawa Tooru, in all of his six feet glory.

“Can I come in?” In Oikawa’s hands, there are bags of what looked like groceries.

_ No _ , Iwaizumi wants to say, but he hasn’t said a single word since the party, and he doesn’t know how to start. His lips part. No words come out. 

“Mattsun has to go off to work, and he didn’t want to leave you alone.”

_ It doesn’t, it shouldn’t be you here. I’ll be fine _ , he thinks desperately.  _ Please go, please leave me alone, please- _

“Mattsun gave me a set of keys, to be honest. But I don’t want to barge in if you really don’t want to let me in. I’m just trying to make sure you’re really as fine as they say you are. Or you will be. Either way. I promise I won’t force you to talk or anything,” he pauses like he’s fumbling for the words, “-you know I would never, don’t you?”

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath. He counts to ten. He counts to twenty. He breathes out, and unlocks the door, turning his back on the door before he can look at Oikawa. Behind him, Oikawa follows him in, closing the door with a * _ click _ *.

_ With who, then? Oikawa?  _ Iwaizumi hears himself tell Akaashi in that bar where it all went wrong. He thinks about all these questions that have been swimming, questions that continue to swim, and wonders if Oikawa has the answer to any of them. Iwaizumi enters his room and locks the door, but he doesn’t manage to shut his questions outside with them.

Outside, he hears funky electronical music from a remake of a game Oikawa and he used to play as little kids, one that Oikawa sucked very badly at. Iwaizumi remembers letting Oikawa win whenever he cried for losing, only to have Oikawa cry because now  _ Iwaizumi _ was losing.

“ _ There is no way for everyone to win, idiot, _ ” Iwaizumi had told him exasperatedly. “ _ All we can work on is losing less. So I’m letting you win because you hate losing so much. _ ”

“ _ Then change games! _ ” Oikawa pouted, discarding the controller on the floor. “ _ If this isn’t a game we can both win, I don’t want to play it. _ ”

“ _ You win some you lose some, you win the game, you lose-” _

_ “I don’t want to lose Iwa-chan. Not now, not ever!” _

Iwaizumi sits on his bed, staring at the back of the door, letting the jingle 8bit track fill the silence of the morning.

_ You win some, you lose some, Hajime _ , he tells himself.  _ Aren’t you tired of losing? _

He opens the door, startling Oikawa.

“Rematch?” he offers.

***

“He said all I ever found in him was comfort, whatever that means. And that it was probably for the best ”

The consoles have been thrown aside after Iwaizumi wins for five rounds in a go, including the tutorial. Oikawa claims he let Iwaizumi win on purpose, to soothe his ailing heart or whatever kind of dramatic sentiment that fits perfectly into Oikawa’s Bullshit Branding™ , but Iwaizumi finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he’d have expected himself to.

“Do you agree?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to, at least. If I did agree that would probably feel fucking awful, knowing maybe I didn’t love him in the way I thought I did, and then staying with him all these years and led him on.” Iwaizumi covers his face with his hands and drags his fingertips down.

“It’s just,” Iwaizumi exhales, “it took me so long to find something I believed I could cling onto, someone that would stay. With him, it didn’t feel like I was trapped in this wooden hut in the middle of a typhoon, waiting to be uprooted at any moment. Rather, it feels like we’re on this sturdy plains on the top of a cliff that overlooks the ocean. The waves come lapping away at the slopes, but you’re not afraid — you don’t  _ feel _ like you have any reason to be. The land beneath you has stood still in face of whatever hardships that have come in a time before you. It will continue to stand in a time beyond you.”

When he stops, he realises the breeze has pulled his curtains into a dance. Beside him, Oikawa simply sits and thinks, staring at him quietly. It takes him back to how it has always been, the two of them sprawled on the floor, on a bed, on windy hilltops, talking.

“Why am I telling you any of this, anyway?” Iwaizumi wonders aloud. “You don’t even know him that well.”

“I may not know him well enough, but I can we’re both people who have seen and appreciated the wonder you are up close. I think that counts for something.”

“If you’re trying to flirt with me after I just got  _ left at the altar _ , Oikawa, I am going to kick you out the house right this minute.”

“I would never, Iwaizumi, you know me.”

Does he really, now? Looking at Oikawa like this, Iwaizumi realises that he  _ does _ know him, despite what he may want himself to believe. That an eight year crack may not have been as irreparable than he’d found it.

He laughs. It’s small, but it’s a start. “Unfortunately, I do.”

“You weren’t left at the altar, Iwaizumi. Don’t be dramatic.”

Iwaizumi grits his teeth. “Get out, asshole.”

“I have the keys,” Oikawa jangles the keys in front of him solemnly, even though the twinkle in his eyes suggest otherwise.


	14. epilogue.

akaashi keiji.

Akaashi knows it’s not his fault.

At this point, yeah, things are pretty much as messy as they can get, and he may have spent the night he left Iwaizumi and many more after crying himself to sleep, he may have gone through many more finding it hard to fall asleep without the steady thrum of a heartbeat next to his, he may have spent so many waking hours in a daze, going through the motions, but he knows this is nobody’s fault.

Breaking up with Iwaizumi feels like hell.

It’s a series of routines wrapped into Akaashi’s daily life that has made him who he is stripped bare — bedsheets gently slid off their waists and tangled limbs at 6am, sunlight that reflects off the bed sheets onto half closed eyelids, sleepy forehead kisses, accompanied by the murmurs telling him to have a good day, a pair of arms wrapped around him when he cooks, laughter in hallways. Take Iwaizumi away from everything that has made Akaashi Akaashi, and what is he left with?

The first time Iwaizumi reaches out after the fiasco is a month later.

The phone rings at 6 in the morning, but this time there are no longer kisses pressed to the forehead, no sweet blessings murmured in the ear that spur him to triumph in the rest of the day, there is only a shrill ring that shatters the serenity of the dawn, tearing down the dam that Akaashi has built and rebuilt time to time in the past month to stop the flood of emotions from drowning him whole.

The caller ID flashes unforgivingly with “Iwaizumi” instead of the name at the tip of Akaashi’s tongue, the same one he’d treated as taboo for the past month. In the spot that should display the photograph attached to the number for as long as Akaashi can remember is bare, leaving only a grey gap on the phone (and Akaashi suspects his heart) that threatens to swallow him whole.

Akaashi lets it ring for a while, before killing the call.

He knows how much this must be hurting Iwaizumi. This knowledge follows him in the same way the memories he tries so hard to discard do, appearing in scenes before his eyes that feel almost tangible enough to touch. But that, is exactly why it takes so many reminders for him to remember that he’s already doing the best he can, to give himself the distance from Iwaizumi that he, and as he has selfishly decided on Iwaizumi’s behalf, as well as Iwaizumi needs.

This is all he has left. With every phone call that he doesn’t pick up, with every text message that he doesn’t respond to, he asks that they give them this, time, and distance to properly mourn a relationship that did not grow as fast the people that were in it, one that could no longer fit the two of them, and had to be left behind along with the Takoyaki hidden among the crowded bustle, the neon lamps of those streets where their footprints have paved through over and over.

He asks them to let him mourn every “Hajime” and “Keiji” that had to be drowned out from the swirls in his mind forever, for if he lets them stay a second longer, it’s going to destroy every ounce of self control he’s ever gathered to stop himself from walking back into the flat they shared, to tell Iwaizumi he’s home here, right next to him.

At the end of the day, it’s not that Iwaizumi doesn’t try. On the contrary, it is precisely because Iwaizumi always tries, far harder than anyone should’ve had to, that Akaashi supposes is why he’s loved him. It is easy to soften for the kind of innocent belief that Iwaizumi upholds in all he sees, that as long as he doesn’t give up, he’s going to get everything he’s been working towards.

Iwaizumi always tries, Akaashi knows this more clearly than anyone, but he also knows this — he’s also trying. He’s trying to strip himself bare to see how much of everything he knew about himself is a by-effect of having loved Bokuto once, long ago, and then how much of this is an outcome of loving Iwaizumi, even throughout these days when he’s desperately trying to do anything but. Take everything that he knows about himself away, and where does this leave Akaashi?

Ask Akaashi. Go on, ask him.

He’ll tell you it was here, this moment where he inhales as he watches the phone ring, and holds the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“...hey. I’m surprised you picked up.”

So is Akaashi if he’s being honest, but more than that, he’s more surprised that his breathing is kept steady, and that the first sound of Iwaizumi doesn’t make his heart squeeze in a suffocating way. “So am I.”

Iwaizumi hesitates on the other end of the phone, a first. But then again, these few months have been full of firsts. Akaashi has maneuverer his way through a series of sky-scraping highs and devastating lows. so many road trips Konoha and Washio have hauled him on, dinners with Kaori and Yukie because “they could do with more company”, books that appeared on his office desk every other week that Udai says has nothing to do with him, but are dog-eared in the same way he marks manuscripts for future revision.

Akaashi wonders what Iwaizumi will say in the end. That he was wrong, that Iwaizumi would still love him any day? That he was right, that Iwaizumi has realised there is so much more he still needs to work out with Oikawa?

When Iwaizumi inhales, Akaashi holds his breath, but what he says still startles Akaashi.

“How have you been?”

Akaashi stuns, then breaks into soft laughter, wondering why he’d expected anything else in the first place. This is Iwaizumi Hajime, after all. Two people who spoke to each other every day of their lives for so long, then parted among a string of mumbled apologies and broken sobs, yet still, of course it’s Iwaizumi’s first instinct to check in on how he’s doing.

“I’m okay. Are you?” After he says this, Akaashi realises the weight in his chest has been lifted, that this one single “I’m okay” no longer carries the weight and guilt of a lie spoken simply to ease the mind of those who care. 

“Maybe.” At the first sound of laughter, Iwaizumi seems to untense too, returning a little chuckle of his own. “I don’t know what to think or say, to be honest. It’s been so long.” Iwaizumi still sounds like he’s in disbelief.

“Don’t you have questions to ask? You’re not mad at me or anything?”

“Questions to ask, debatable. You’ve said everything you needed to say, didn’t you? You meant everything you said. There’s no point in questioning you further on a ghost of the past. But I’d like to talk to you again sometime. Properly. In person, if you’d like that too?”

Akaashi is no stranger to the concept of victory, of blinding lights dancing off with medals slung over necks, of searching his name on the top row of ranked names on a bulletin board and finding it there every time, of acceptance letters and scholarships to the top universities across Japan, of returning home everyday to walk into Iwaizumi’s arms.

His victories are hard earned, but they come in scales so grandiose that it always feels like everything is at stake. Akaashi may be no stranger to the concept of victory, but he is no stranger to the heaviness in his chest at every loss, nor the whispers that tell him he could have done better, he could have done so much more, but he didn’t, he _didn’t_ , and-

“Okay,” Akaashi says.

Akaashi knows this isn’t his fault. He knows this isn’t anyone’s fault, really, just several paths that crossed at the wrong time and tangled itself into a labyrinth, but Akaashi has found the cracks where the light comes in, and Akaashi knows he can get out of these. Several days feel foggier than others, where everything he sees reminds him of Iwaizumi and what they were, but recovery is rarely a linear process, if ever. These days crop up sporadically, but his support group, his friends are there every single day, to yank him out from these ditches.

So maybe victory doesn’t have to come in grandiose achievements. Every step forward Akaashi takes to rebuild himself after discarding all he knows, is a victory in it’s own unimpressive, but still noteworthy way. Akaashi decides he’ll take it.

Take everything that he knows about himself away, and this is where Akaashi is left.

“Okay,” Akaashi repeats into the phone. “Takoyaki tomorrow night?”

* * *

hanamaki takahiro.

The day Akaashi Keiji strode out of his own engagement party, Hanamaki had known it would be a long time until he next saw him.

In Hanamaki’s head, a long time without Akaashi meant something like a week. A long week without his usual invitation of dinner at his and Iwaizumi’s, a long week without Akaashi sending him a cool song from this one niche artist who fit perfectly with Hanamaki’s taste, a week without Akaashi nagging him to take regular breaks from all the arranging and composing he does, and “ _You’re already doing all of this on top of your day job and band practice, you’re going to collapse if you don’t take care. Iwaizumi has me, Matsukawa has you, it can’t hurt for you to have an extra someone to worry about you_ ”.

Six months is not a long time in the grander scheme of things, but six months without Akaashi feels like a drought. If he’d known the next time he saw him would be a solid six months away, Hanamaki would have chased after him and given him the fiercest hug ever, then threatened him to take care of himself, the way he was always telling other people.

When Hanamaki finds himself sat opposite Akaashi in a shabu-shabu one Friday, he doesn't know where to start. 

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “Are you always this quiet?”

“Are you always this tired?” Hanamaki retaliates, earning him a doleful smile from Akaashi.

“Touche, I should’ve known you’d go for that.” His tone is playful, but it doesn’t dull the weary look in his eyes. 

“What happened?” Hanamaki says gruffly. “Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Sleeping, yes. Sleeping well, however, I’m afraid not.”

“What? Why?”

They watch the soup boil. Akaashi picks his plate up and gently puts his meat balls into the steaming soup, one by one.

“I don’t know, but it’s fine I guess. It gets easier to cope. How’s everyone?”

Anyone who didn’t know Akaashi well enough wouldn’t have seen the way his hand is trembling so slightly, or how the word lagged behind the faintest of hesitation. But this isn’t just anyone, after all. This was Hanamaki who has had the privilege of witnessing this particular kind of sincerity that was Akaashi, to have been showered with years worth of his care and concern.

“Iwaizumi’s fine,” he tells him, watching the quiver in Akaashi’s lip fade, the muscles in his shoulders untense. “He wasn’t doing the best at first — you know what it’s like, you saw it all those years with Oikawa, but then he had you.”

“And now?”

“...he has Oikawa, I guess.”

“So they’re getting along again?”

“More or less. He’s not trying to replace you though, don’t worry, they just-”

Without realising it, he’s started to explain, but Akaashi stops him before he gets any further. “Hanamaki.”

He slumps into his seat. “Yeah.”

“It’s o-kay,” Akaashi says, emphasizing every syllable as he stared into Hanamaki’s eyes. When Akaashi pulls out these serious stares, it makes him get this eerie feeling that Akaashi can see through his every single thought. “I’ve always known that he could be happier with Oikawa.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Hanamaki, the two of them are made for each other in a way unexplainable until you’ve seen it with your eyes. I could never live up to that, nor do I ever want to.” Akaashi removes his glasses, fogged up from leaning too close to the steam, then wipes them clean. He continues, “Oikawa has spent too long struggling with what he wants and finally come to terms with it. He’s finally seen what we all see, and something I’ve recently realised you and Matsukawa have probably seen all along.” The sad smile that hangs on his face makes Hanamaki’s heart twist. “Right?”

“It never felt like the right time to mention anything, not when things were working out either way. This is all kind of a mess, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s really anyone’s fault. It’s just a series of specific events that only managed to lead to another set of specific events because it happened at a specific point in time. But I’m sitting here with you and talking about all of this without feeling suffocated by sadness or anything of the like, so it still feels like some sort of closure, I suppose, to everything.”

Hanamaki laughs, in spite of it all.

“God, Akaashi, how I’ve missed you.”

“Thank god, or this would be kind of embarrassing, huh?”

On the opposite end of the steaming soup, Hanamaki watches a smile — the sincere, illuminating kind that has lit up Hanamaki’s paths so many times over the years — bloom on Akaashi’s face. “Welcome back,” he tells him.

* * *

oikawa tooru.

Oikawa has always known himself as a selfish person.

Take Iwaizumi Hajime for example, the role model of selflessness itself. 

Task someone to find even a sliver of malice within him, and they might crumble under the pressure of how unattainable that feels. There may be no deciding factor that cleanly sorts the human race into inherently good or bad, but sometimes there is simply more of one than the other.

Sometimes, that makes all the difference.

Oikawa doesn’t know if three months is enough to earn Iwaizumi’s forgiveness for what he did. He doesn’t know if forever will be enough for Iwaizumi’s forgiveness, but three months is how long it takes for Iwaizumi to ask if Oikawa might want to move in together.

He doesn't know what he should feel, nor what he should be allowed to feel, but despite it all, he lets out a light-hearted laugh. "You can't genuinely mean that," he snorts. "I thought you hated me."

“You’ve freeloaded in Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s flat too long. Give people some privacy,” he grunts. 

At the mention of privacy, Oikawa’s glee tones down into a more solemn expression. Between the four of them, it's easy to to see that Hanamaki and Matsukawa's relationship has gone from one that revolves around dancing around one another, to dancing _with_ one another. “Ah yes, of course.” Iwaizumi's right, and Oikawa probably knows this better than him, being the one who has to spend so much time around the two. Their house is not where Oikawa should be, but then, he's never really thought he'd have anywhere to go. Not to mention how to prospect of being all _alone_ after so long of company feels incredibly hollow and daunting.

Iwaizumi studies him for a moment, then lets out a long drawn sigh. “I haven’t forgiven you, though. Don’t get too excited,” Iwaizumi warns, but there is no bite between his teeth.

Oikawa has never wanted to cry and laugh together at the same time so much, but he manages to pull himself together. Barely. “I don’t expect you to,” he flashes Iwaizumi two rows of teeth with tears in his eyes. “You don’t have to feel like you have to. Really.”

This is a start, and that’s enough for Oikawa.

Here, he watches Iwaizumi’s features soften, before gruffly muttering, “I was joking, we are best friends, aren’t we.”

"We are?" Oikawa asks. He thinks he knows now what Iwaizumi will say, but he also wants to hear the validation from Iwaizumi.

"That was a rhetoric question, idiot. We are."

The concept of "best friends" feel so terrifying, taking everyone you have laid your eyes on since birth and strung up enough of a conversation to call them friends, and then pointing at only one, saying "That one. That's my best friend among them all." But Oikawa already knows love, and love, you see, is a far more dangerous word.

As someone who fell in love before he was old enough to know what love even was, and never fell out of it, Oikawa knows this better than anyone. Yearning from one end of the volleyball court for your vice captain, yearning from across the pacific ocean for someone you consciously cut out of your life, and for the very same someone who sleeps under the same roof as you is different, but here is what remains the same — they all hurt an equal amount.

Oikawa treads carefully.

He joins a V League team, he moves in with Iwaizumi, and life goes on peacefully in a way that feels wrong.

If he’s being very honest with himself, he doesn’t know where he stands with Iwaizumi, nor where he wants to be. Here, they lie on couches huddled up to watch movies together, tearing themselves away from each other when they suddenly realise they’ve been leaning close enough to touch. Here, Oikawa absentmindedly thinks to buy things in pairs, only to wonder if it’s really his place.

Yet, with every passing second, he feels like he’s living a life he’s stolen. 

Oikawa loves Iwaizumi, but he never returned to ruin any of this equilibrium that Iwaizumi has carefully set up in his life in Oikawa’s absence. So when he does anyway, when a single piece is added onto this scale whose balance has been intricately crafted, and it sends everything flying, Oikawa doesn’t remember what it’s like to walk in daylight without guilt shrouding his entire being.

He doesn’t really have to do any of this. Despite all he’s done, despite how selfish he’s been, he suspects neither Akaashi nor Iwaizumi has any of that kind of malice to ever hold it against Oikawa. Perhaps this is what makes him most uncomfortable in the end — getting exactly what he wants after all it’s taken for him to get here.

Oikawa doesn’t know what Iwaizumi says to Akaashi the day they finally meet up. 

There isn’t a need to know, not when there is a sharp jab of uneasiness every time he finds himself laughing with Iwaizumi, wondering if this happiness is rightfully claimed. So he doesn’t ask, and Iwaizumi doesn’t tell.

It is yet another “I have something to talk to you about” that summons him to this same coffee shop where Oikawa met Akaashi the day before the engagement party, where once more, Oikawa thinks he’s early, only to find Akaashi is even earlier.

There are things that never change, like the iced latte on a coaster in front of Oikawa and Akaashi’s coffee, black as night. But there are things that have changed, for example the absence of a silver band on Akaashi’s ring finger. Oikawa’s heart dips, uneasiness sinking it’s claws into him.

In his six month absence, Akaashi still remains exactly what Oikawa expects him to look like, tousled hair tucked behind ears, with several stray strands falling into his eyes. He looks Oikawa in the eye in a way that tells him he’s studying him, but the warmth and gentleness he’s always radiated is still imminent, down to the smallest of gestures.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Oikawa’s face heats up, but Akaashi only smiles. He gestures for Oikawa to go first, courteous as always. The fog that’s been surrounding Oikawa’s head clears. _Trust Akaashi to know exactly how to put other people at ease_ , Oikawa thinks, _even people who he has every right to hate_.

“What do you have to apologise to me for,” he chuckles, wincing slightly when he notices how it sounds more nervous than nonchalant. 

A tilt of the head, a crooked smile, and Akaashi answers. “For leaving you to deal with the aftermath of everything, no? He must have been really upset when I left. He might have blamed it all on you, even.”

 _Rightfully so_ , Oikawa wants to say, but Akaashi goes on before his lips can part.

“Oikawa.”

“What?”

“It’s not your fault.”

Oikawa inhales sharply, choking out a harsh laugh. “Of course it is, what do you mean-”

“It’s not your fault Iwaizumi and I split up. It’s not your fault that he’s learned how to be happy again, even though you might feel like you’ve taken my place.”

Oikawa can only stare. “For someone who looks so cool and reserved, you’re really bold when it comes to assumptions like these huh, Akaashi?”

“Not always,” Akaashi’s lips curve upward. “But you’re easier to read than you think you are. Besides, you’ve already laid yourself bare the last time we met. I think I can trust you enough to just say everything I’m thinking.”

“But you’re wrong,” Oikawa snaps. “It _is_ my fault. I did exactly what I said I wouldn’t do, and then threw all of the stability he spent years to build without me away. But he forgave me, and now it’s just like I never left. We’re just, friends again, people who can laugh with each other, people who can joke with each other. What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

“But isn’t that exactly what you-”

“Not at the cost of you. Not at the cost of stealing everything that belonged to you away and claiming it for myself, then parade in these spoils of war. I feel so repulsive, to bask in any of this.”

“Oikawa,” Akaashi calls out to him, and he hates how tender it manages to sound even though he doesn’t deserve it. “I didn’t do it for him, I did it for the both of us. Iwaizumi deserves someone he can love with all his heart, and I deserve to find someone who will love me in the way I love them too. You and Iwaizumi may not see it, but it’s so clear to all of us around you how you both are two pieces of a whole. When put together, there’s simply so blinding about you both that you leave everyone else in the dust even without noticing.”

 _Stop_ , Oikawa desperately wants to tell him. _Go on and I’m going to cry in public, and it’s going to be all your fault._

“Not everyone is as lucky as you to have someone like Iwaizumi. Not everyone is as lucky as Iwaizumi to have someone like you either. There are things that are practically impossible for you to see because of how close to it all you are, like the way he shines a little brighter when you’re around. You’ve never seen the contrast, so you’d never know how much of a difference you make just by being around him. I don’t even believe in things like fate, but looking at the two of you, there’s this gravitational pull that draws you to each other. There is this orbit that belongs exclusively to the two of you, and now that you’ve returned to it, you’ve fitted the world back on it’s trails. This is where you belong. Go after it.”

“But I can’t-”

“You can. You can do any of it. You’ve already come this far, and there is only this one last step that no one is stopping you from. If it’s my blessing you want, do you _need_ it, really?”

Oikawa looks at Akaashi silently, feeling the guilt that has been gnawing at him melt into the warmth of the sincerity in Akaashi’s eyes, bit by bit.

Behind the glasses, Akaashi’s eyes twinkle. “You don’t. You don’t need my blessing, or anyone’s really, but if it makes you feel better, my blessings are always yours to keep.”

Akaashi’s words are things he’s heard from different people with different perspectives all these years, but somehow hearing them tumble off his lips make it all seem more believable.

Oikawa Tooru didn’t cry when he wrote that letter eight years ago, nor when he boarded the flight for Argentina. Oikawa didn’t let a single tear fall when the crushing weight of everything he has done fell on his shoulders, in the form of shattered friendships and an uncloseable distance. But here before Akaashi, he can feel the tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

“Maybe not,” he furiously dabs away at his eyes, “But it’s always nice to know a friend’s got your back in decisions you make.”

This is the validation he doesn’t even know he’s been waiting for until it’s presented to him, a gentle assurance that he’s done himself and all those around him wrong, but amidst all of that, he’s also summoned the courage to try again. Here is the assurance that trying is worth it, that he's tried, and everything else is a result of that.

“You don’t have to be so sentimental about this, I just say what I see.”

“God, are you always this fucking nice? Do you have casual bitch sessions with a selected tightknit friend group to blow off steam or something?”

“No, it’s just to you. Consider it some act of charity for latte drinkers.”

Oikawa’s face scrunches in disgust. “You people who drink coffee black are always as obnoxious as it gets, huh.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

***

Blessings or dazzling lights that leave people struggling to keep up or not, it still doesn’t feel like his place to know what Akaashi and Iwaizumi talked about that day, even though a gnawing feeling in his gut tells him it makes all the difference. He doesn’t ask, but Iwaizumi does eventually tell him.

“Shitty-kawa.”

“What the fuck, I haven’t done anything wrong all day-”

“We need to talk.”

They need to talk. Oikawa knows this, of course he does. There has been years and years worth of fuck ups, all because they didn’t know how to talk things out like normal, functioning people who don’t have issues communicating their own feelings towards people they care ardently for.

Iwaizumi doesn’t sit him on a table and get them both glasses of water, or any form of formality. He says _we need to talk_ in that kind of _we really need to talk_ voice, and then topples onto the couch, watching the ceiling fan spin. 

Oikawa gapes, then “Okay,” he tells him. He finds a spot on the other end of the couch and plants himself there, where he can watch Iwaizumi safely from a distance.

“He was right,” Iwaizumi begins. His brows are deeply furrowed, the way he used to look when he was concentrating for a serve.

 _Stop_ , Oikawa tells himself. For all he know, this might be the very last of it all, and there may be nowhere for them to go from here. Oikawa is taking Iwaizumi in desperately like he's running out of time, so _stop_ , he reminds himself. _Stop. It's okay._ _You’re trying to have a serious conversation here, focus._

“Akaashi?”

“Yeah. Whatever it was that I found in him, it was never love. Even if we went on like this, I don’t think it could’ve ever been. So.”

“So?”

“Thank you.”

Of all things he was expecting, it wasn't this. “What on earth, Iwa-chan?”

“Thank you for coming back, thank you for being the person who let us see and sort through whatever it is that we needed to sort through.”

“Oh.” Bitterness coils at Oikawa’s stomach. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t know why dread is filling his heart. This feels like an exchange of gestures. First he tells Iwaizumi “thank you”, and Iwaizumi tells him “you’re welcome”, then he leaves for Argentina for eight years. Now Iwaizumi tells him “thank you”, and the roles are reversed. This feels like an omen.

Iwaizumi turns to look at him, brows still furrowed, but now looking more like he was frowning at Oikawa than deep in thought. “Are you overthinking again, idiot?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Oikawa looks away. “Maybe. Was this all you wanted to talk about?”

“Oikawa.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

“No. I don’t want you to see me like this, so steeped in resentment for god knows what reason.”

“Oikawa look at me.”

“...”

“Tooru, it’s me. Please.”

Oikawa obliges, staring at one Iwaizumi who simply lays there, sprawled across the couch. “Here, what do you want from me?” he voice cracks. “If you need to tell me I shouldn’t be here, that you need time and space to yourself just get it out with. Whatever it is you need, I’ll give it to you.”

Without batting an eyelash, he says, “I need you to trust me.”

“Huh?” Oikawa raises a disbelieving eyebrow, jaw dropping. “This isn’t funny of you.”

“I’m not messing with you. I need time to know what I want, to know where I’m heading, and I don’t know how long that will take, but I need you to trust me that it’s going to be with you. What do you say?”

Oikawa’s heart grows about twenty times bigger. He wonders if he’s heard him wrong.

“For real?”

“Yes.” Earnestly. “But you have to promise you’ll never leave me behind again.”

“I’ve said what I wanted to say, and I’m not about to go back on my word now.” Oikawa watches Iwaizumi’s smile grow, eyes filling with fondness. “Whatever it is that you need, I’ll give it to you, Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa has always known himself as a selfish person. He may never be able to be someone who’s always going to put the needs of the world before his own, simply because there isn’t enough inherent goodness in him. But Oikawa is trying his best. He’s trying to navigate the line of selfishness but not at the expense of others. It’s not much, but trying is all Oikawa has.

Here, he pleads to whatever mystical that exists beyond human comprehension, to forgive him for being selfish this once, to forgive him for declaring he would do anything if it meant protecting this smile.


	15. the end.

matsukawa issei.

Watching Iwaizumi and Oikawa dazzle the living lights out of everyone they encounter since his high school days, Matsukawa wonders if it’s odd that he’s never felt the need to be envious.

They have the kind of protagonist energy coursing in their veins, heightened drama and tension in everything they do. Everything has to come in overwhelming dosages, and while that includes the lows, it also extends to the high of highs. Here, he watches the two of them squabble, the four of them squeezed in this tiny music studio at the back of the store Hanamaki helps to run, it almost feels surreal to watch them engage in a moment too mundane to fit their branding.

“Haven’t you both had enough, you’ve been at this for a solid 20 minute,” Hanamaki says lazily. “I thought we had a job to do.”

Hanamaki’s right. They do have a job to do, but it gets significantly harder to execute when Oikawa and Iwaizumi get into a zone, where they’re suddenly sworn enemies, and they wage war among themselves until one of them caves and lets in. This is where Matsukawa and Hanamaki shield their eyes, protect themselves from the overbearing sweetness that’s to come.

There wasn’t ever really a defining moment in their relationship that cleanly sorts them between yes and no. There was simply a step further, then a step more.

There is making effort to show affection in more tangible ways — like profiteroles on the table on Saturday mornings even though Matsukawa is the furthest possible thing away from an early bird, like getting him flowers of all kinds, filling vase after vase with camellias first red then yellow then white, and bouquets of azaleas. 

It boils down to the smallest of things that makes up their relationship, but it all feels so worth it when he takes Hanamaki’s hand one day and he lets him.

It's perfect. Almost.

Still, a constant feeling of mild inadequacy isn't something that chips at you for a short while and calls it a day. It’s a single drop of jet black ink spilled into a glass of water — you cannot remove the ink droplet without draining the glass completely. However, what you _can_ do is add more water from a running tap and dilute until the ink begins to swirl past the rim of the glass, flow, and spill.

There is no on and off switch to miraculously feeling better about yourself or to simply dispel the sense of not being _enough_ , one that drags you away from the one person you love, coaxing you day and night to just _let him go, you’ll never be able to catch up, you’ll never be enough to stand by him, why torment yourself by loving what you cannot have, by yearning for people you’ll never deserve_.

Every day that Hanamaki stays by Matsukawa’s side, a slender trickle of water flows into this ink stained glass of Matsukawa’s. It’s not ground-breaking. It’s not much. But it’s enough, just to know that he doesn’t care, he doesn’t mind the ink that spills like flowers in what could’ve been a glass of crystal clear water. He lets it trickle, lets it flow until things begin to make sense again.

Under the stars that don’t outshine the streetlights of Tokyo, but are still mesmerising to watch anyway, Matsukawa calls out to Hanamaki. “Hey.”

“Mhm?”

“Do you know me?”

“What kind of question is that, Issei? Of course I do.”

“Here, one year ago, you said you didn’t know if you ever really knew me at all. So one year later, I’m asking you if that truth still stands?”

Matsukawa is a man of so many lies and so little truths. Forgive him for holding him on to the very few truths he believes in, and far fewer ones that haunts him longer than they should have.

Hanamaki gives him a small smile, the kind that he gives him when Matsukawa nails a perfect block, or when the music they jam match up completely in sync, or when their fingers brush as they reach for something together. “Matsukawa Issei, I have loved you for years, and I suspect I will continue to do so. If you by chance return my feelings, might you want to consider going out with me?”

Matsukawa mirrors his expression. “Yes. A million times, then more after that, yes.”

Watching Iwaizumi and Oikawa dazzle the living lights out of everyone they encounter since his high school days, Matsukawa wonders if it’s odd that he’s never felt the need to be envious.

But then again, most people who are ever envious of the two of them have never seen Hanamaki like this, far more heavenly than any of the stars. If anything, they should probably be jealous of Matsukawa for having this all to himself, and finally, _finally_ feeling that all of this is rightfully earned.

Here, he genuinely believes he deserves to be happy. Matsukawa doesn’t know how one could possibly top that.

* * *

iwaizumi hajime.

Iwaizumi doesn’t remember when he first meets Oikawa.

Their parents have long been friends far before they were even born. As they grew up, it just made sense to have them side by side. You couldn’t have Iwaizumi without having Oikawa toddling along, not too far behind. 

Oikawa’s always been such an integral part of Iwaizumi’s life that Iwaizumi wouldn’t be able to recite any of the central events that makes him who he is without mentioning the presence of Oikawa. Not his first piano lesson that Oikawa had been reluctant to join, but still followed behind when he saw how Iwaizumi was shaking a little from the nervousness. Not his first volleyball match, that left him reeling for time to come, accompanied by the fire that fuelled him to go on, to improve, to surpass limits.

By the time he understood any of these feelings that have bubbled in his heart for so long, Oikawa was already starting to go through his many girlfriends. They didn’t understand him, not the passion for volleyball, not the way his obsession would lead him places his body couldn’t follow, and have it breaking apart in the face of important matches where Oikawa stretched himself thin.

Not the way Iwaizumi did.

It is always his place to speak up, girlfriend or no. Iwaizumi was his _best friend._ He knows there were no ties that could usurp that, but still, every passing day that he watches someone who is not him hold some sort of odd, socially approved claim over Oikawa, there is a sour taste left in his mouth.

Everything they are begins too early for Iwaizumi to know what sort of memory to attach to it, but a name for it first comes at a McDonalds, with a single whisper of _“What are we”._

Iwaizumi remembers thinking about how ‘boyfriend’ has such a nice ring to it. A simple compound word, snipping all the ribbons that have parted them from each other with its striking “DO NOT ENTER” warnings in half, and then dissolved them into stardust.

Other things that dissolve into stardust upon first impact: Iwaizumi’s heart.

Source of impact: Oikawa Tooru.

When Oikawa breaks up with him for the first time, he realises this is the first time he’s ever had to go day by day feeling like a floating boat at sea. He’s never had to go so long knowing he can turn his head as many times as he’d like, and there, he will not find Oikawa staring back with the kind of cheeky fondness he reserved for Iwaizumi. There is only music to keep him sane in all of the solitude, because it was the only thing that belonged more to him than it did Oikawa. 

He waits for Oikawa to come back every day, because Iwaizumi knows him enough, he thinks. He waits for him to sort out whatever it is that he needs, with himself, with his relationship with Iwaizumi, and he does come back, but it’s short-lived.

You know how that story goes.

To learn how to be himself again, Iwaizumi must first scrub everything in him that was a product of Oikawa Tooru ever existing in his life. Yet, Oikawa has been here all this while. Oikawa has dared to stay with the kind of confidence that said he will always be here, so here is Iwaizumi, 18, years worth of habits and quirks that screamed Oikawa, making up the entirety of him. Take that all away from him, and where does this leave Iwaizumi?

***

The first few days after Akaashi leaves are a hazy blur, with snippets of memories, conversations blended into a suffocating kind of sorrow. But thinking back on it now, Iwaizumi wonders how much of it was the break up itself, and how much of it was the prospect that while he believes he has spent _years_ trying to cleanse himself of Oikawa Tooru, to escape the grasp of someone who should no longer had any say in Iwaizumi’s life, it was all for nothing. 

That at the end of the day, this is all Iwaizumi boils down to — a by-effect of loving Oikawa Tooru. 

Everyone sees Iwaizumi as the victim, who has been left behind by Oikawa, the one who asked that Iwaizumi give him permission to stay forever. Everyone sees Iwaizumi as the one who has been left behind at his own engagement party by the person who asked for his hand in marriage. They only see the Iwaizumi who struggles to forgive Oikawa. They only see Iwaizumi who struggles just to understand where Akaashi’s coming from.

They don’t see Iwaizumi struggling to forgive himself.

“ _I_ _t’s not your fault,_ ” Akaashi tells him under the red lanterns of a takoyaki stall. “ _It’s not a sin to love someone so much that you carry that love around with you and embed it into your every action. It’s not your fault that you told me you loved me and I believed you every time, Hajime, because you don’t lie. If you say you love me, I believe you. So here, if your heart is telling you that you’re falling back in love with Oikawa too, I ask that you believe yourself, just as much as I believe you.”_

 _“But I strung you along,”_ Iwaizumi mumbles. _This is all I’ve been thinking about for the past six months_ , he thinks, but doesn't know how to vocalise.

Akaashi’s expression changes before his eyes. The corner of his lips curve upward with steely determination.

 _“Look at me, Iwaizumi Hajime,”_ he says with authority. _“Don’t you dare even suggest that. My time spent with you was the happiest few years of my life. Let me go back with what we’ve established now, and I would still choose to love you all over again.”_

Before Iwaizumi came here, he had a script of everything he’d wanted to ask or say planned out. He told himself he’d say everything he wanted to say, that he’d leave this table with a proper closure, leaving no room for regrets to plague him for years to come. Yet, all it takes is one look at Akaashi to render all these words empty, and only feelings that welled up over bites of takoyaki.

 _“Please forgive me, for not understanding my own feelings,”_ he’d told him.

In response, Akaashi only shook his head with a low chuckle, rueful and genuine. _“No, Hajime,”_ he tells him. _“Please forgive yourself.”_

It’s alright though, Iwaizumi thinks.

All these years, Iwaizumi knows love is an emotion that comes to him so much more easily than it does for other people.

He knows he feels things with more feverish intensity than what people around him do, and that it’s accentuated in everything he wants to do for these people he loves, in everything he eventually does.

This is no easy lifestyle.

This is a lifestyle accompanied with amplified emotions, with love hidden in every seam and pocket of your being until it brims, because there’s only so much you can hold.

Iwaizumi is so tired, so scared of being left behind.

It is because these emotions are all so heightened, that he clings to everyone he loves and cares for so deeply, when they leave, they take a part of Iwaizumi away with them. Iwaizumi already _loves_ so much. If this is all he is, and he’s already given it all to them and it’s still not enough, what else does he have left?

Iwaizumi is the only constant in these equations of leaving. It is always someone who leaves, and Iwaizumi who is left behind. Each time he tries to echo about how none of this is his fault, because what wrong has he ever done but love? Yet, when these theories repeat themselves over and over, when all the effort he puts in always carve out the same result from these messes he’s been put in, he finds it harder to believe any of that.

With a blame, with a fault, the next step is forgiveness.

It’s surprising really, because Iwaizumi has always thought forgiveness was something that comes with love. If love comes to him in meanders and waves, he expects forgiveness to do the same for him. Yet, each time he tries to tap into the well of forgiveness, it always comes up empty.

“ _It’s not your fault._ ”

“ _It’s not a sin to love someone so much that you carry that love around with you and embed it into your every action._ ”

“ _It’s not your fault that you told me you loved me and I believed you every time, Hajime._ ”

Iwaizumi believes Akaashi.

He doesn’t have to learn to love all those around him, because love is something already so inherent in him. All he has to do is extend this love to himself, and the forgiveness that comes with it. Iwaizumi can do it, he’s got all these people who have been supporting him his whole life. He doesn't have to be scared, not of being left behind, not of anything, not when he has all these friends.

Not when he’ll always have himself, no matter who leaves.

“Tooru,” he whispers into the night, with one Oikawa Tooru sleepily draped over him. 

“Mmmhmm?” A sleepy response.

“I love you so much.”

Oikawa lets himself be wrapped in Iwaizumi’s embrace. “Me too, Iwa-chan,” he murmurs.

This is okay. He’s okay. He’s not scared.


	16. city of stars, iii.

akaashi keiji.

Akaashi Keiji may be no stranger to the concept of victory, but the line between blinding lights and a dark fall towards a deep abyss is so thin, that he thinks it’s safe to say he’s no stranger to grief either.

Without Iwaizumi in his life, days start out disorientating. 

He wakes up confused, like there’s something missing in his heart, even though he doesn’t know what. They say habits take three weeks to form, but they don’t tell you how long it takes to unlearn habits you’ve formed and then tempered and strengthened. Then don’t tell you how long it takes to forget habits, even if you try really really hard to do so.

He’s so used to watching out for other people before him that once that role is unfulfilled, it leaves Akaashi stumbling to catch his footing.

There is no grandiose revelation or dramatic reveal, there is only what he does best — setting out to build his days solidly from the ground up. Akaashi is an accumulation of his everyday habits. Give him things once, twice, then many more after that, and he can make it a part of him. That is how he’s always gone on. This is how he will continue to go.

There only needs to be one day where he just carries on with his life without thinking about Iwaizumi with every fleeting moment. There only needs to be one night’s worth of peaceful slumber, where he wakes up feeling like this is the kind of day he can take over the entire universe.

Akaashi only needs one day. He only needs one night. Come one, and more will eventually follow.

Of course, there are going to be many gaping holes within his lifestyles that used to be fitted with Iwaizumi’s habits, or rituals devised for the sake of him. Now, Akaashi chides himself to think of what _he_ likes, and he does that. There used to be Tchaikovsky playing in hallways as they waltzed around their flat, but now that there’s no need for waltzing, Akaashi can just go ham and blast Mahler.

He wonders if breakups are the acceptable reasons for Akaashi to make drastic changes to his life. Like taking up new hobbies, for example. Broaden his horizons, diversify your economy, seek out more things that can potentially make him more happy in general, like parkour, or embroidery, or tarot reading, or candle making. He wonders if he should drop everything and go backpacking around the world, or dye his hair neon purple, or something like that.

But recovery, it doesn’t have to come in the form of baking fifty three cakes every week to fill the hole in the heart. It doesn’t have to be a hair of tricoloured streaks. It doesn’t have to be a passport full of stamps in languages Akaashi can’t read. Sometimes it is just third wheeling on one of Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s dates, video calls with Kaori at 3am because that one new Korean drama has her inconsolable, or biweekly potluck parties at Washio’s.

It takes time, as most things tend to, but things that feel like the end of the world at one given point can still tide over in the next. If he can attend all of Bokuto’s matches and laugh along with him without a single care in the world, it’s not going to be a problem with Iwaizumi either.

Akaashi Keiji is no stranger to grief, but he’s no stranger from recovering from that all, and returning triumphant either. Akaashi is content.

There may be no longer be someone for him to call home, nor songs written for him, meals to be shared, but despite it all, Akaashi is happy. He’s gained a new coffee buddy, another someone who can take his sarcasm good-naturedly, then fire a few of his own back. He still has backdoor passes to one of his favourite bands in the universe, friendship privileges that lets him witness every single rehearsal in all of its miraculousness. Akaashi has so many friends, so many things to be grateful for. He’ll take this. He’ll take all of this.

This is okay. He’s okay.

* * *

oikawa tooru.

Oikawa likes to categorise the world by things he knows and things he doesn’t.

Things he knows: the feel of leather on his outstretched palms, Hanamaki’s exact order at the teppanyaki store because he refuses to order anything else, the fact that Akaashi Keiji has only drank latte once in his life and it was because of a dare, the feeling of summer raindrops on his head and the absence of which after Iwaizumi comes yelling about how much of an idiot he is to have forgotten an umbrella even after he reminds him.

Other things he knows: the fact that he’s the most selfish person he knows.

It is human nature to be scared of the unknown, to be fearful of the unpredictability of future events that come, but these fears in Oikawa have always been more prominent than that of those around him. He can be scared. Anyone can be. But it gets so tiring to live day and night, lurking in the shadows of your fears. 

Oikawa is so envious of the people who are born into this world with some kind of instinctive surge of courage at any given moment. _It’s not fair,_ he thinks. It’s not fair that they get to hop on whatever train that leads wherever they want to go with so much ease when there are so many tangled vines that root Oikawa so deeply where he stands.

Another thing Oikawa knows: _Talent is something you make bloom, instinct is something you polish._

Simply because courage is not something that’s ingrained in his every bone, all he can seek to do is go after it. He does not manage to hop onto the first train that comes, but behind them are one, two, three that follow. If he slices these fears apart, who's to say he’ll never make it there?

Things he doesn’t know: why people forgive him despite it all.

Selflessness is a virtue he values so highly above all, and he suspects this has a lot to do with the fact that this is something he does not have. There is simply something about the longing and yearning that makes the prospect of things you simply cannot have appealing. The grass is always greener on the other side. Virtues you can’t channel much as you try are the most alluring things you find in other people.

Still, that’s where trying comes in.

It’s exactly because of how hard all of this is that it’s called trying, and because trying is all you have.

If there is no fear that looms in the background of every step you take, that is simply called doing. Trying is when you think it won't work, but you still go for it anyway. It is running headfirst into a concrete wall, then wishfully hoping it will give way to your idiocy, or stubbornness — whichever applied more.

Oikawa is many things — selfish, a coward, but despite it all, he’s also lucky. He’s been given the chance to try again to repair the bridges he’s torn down. Things haven’t played out the way he expected them to, but this is more than he had ever hoped for when he booked the flight ticket from Argentina to Japan. 

There's nothing _really_ impressive about what he’s done, strictly speaking, but to him it makes all the difference. He could be in Argentina, with more medals slung over his head as the seasons swirl by, but he’s here, now, standing in the doorway, watching Iwaizumi cook. This is the most mundane thing ever, but still Oikawa knows this is all he’s ever wanted. 

Oikawa Tooru wants to be unafraid.

He's left Japan and gone to Argentina and left Argentina and come back to Japan. He has decided he loves Iwaizumi, and then decided he has to leave him because he loves him too much, and then eaten his own words because he now _has_ to come back, once again because he loves him.

He has been absolutely ridiculous, he knows, but he’s here in one piece and has successfully made it this far, surprisingly with more friends that he’s started with. Oikawa thinks he can make it further, unafraid.

Oikawa inhales, then calls out to the love of his life. 

“I’m home, Iwaaaa-chan.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t turn around, but Oikawa can tell that he’s smiling. “I know,” he says. “I always know when you’re here.”

“And I’m here to stay,” he chirps. “Forever, and ever, and ever.”

Finally, Iwaizumi turns around to look, wearing an incredibly fond expression. “I know.”

Here, Oikawa only knows how to stand and stare, letting silence fall between them. The room is warm, partially from the way everything has been painted the colour of autumn by the rays that filter in through the red checkered curtains, and partially from the way this place feels so lived in and cosy and simply _loved_ , there is no other word for it. 

Here, he genuinely believes he could take on the world. He doesn’t know how one could possibly top that.

“Hajime?” he murmurs, “I love you.”

This is okay. He’s okay.

Oikawa breathes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Honorary moral support tags, who have been listening to me yell about this since the 24th of June.  
> [ [Sirius](https://twitter.com/whysosearius) | [Krypt](https://twitter.com/chaoticalcomet) | [Sweet](https://twitter.com/shesusismygod) | [Kiro](https://twitter.com/kiroiimye) ]
> 
> If you have any thoughts on this whatsoever, my comments and inboxes are always open! I am more than excited to hear what you have to say :D Kudos and the like are always appreciated but if this sparks anything in you, that is already more than enough for me. Please take care in these times, and all other times. Consider this my ode to you before I vanish into the caves of zines and academia.
> 
> Now the actual thoughts (Written 5 days after posting the fic bc i was recovering B ] ) . Where do I even begin. 
> 
> This set out to be 5k, and the more I wrote the more I wanted to explore, thus becoming this giant you see before you. Among here these are all dynamics that I cherish with all my heart. Here I tried my best to explore and take these characters apart and rebuild them with a mixture of what we know and what I can see them doing? This is just so much of me trying to sit down and have a talk with them and go "hey, Oikawa, how are you feeling today? Can you talk to me about it?" and boom. With that said, and considering how i practically lived and breathed this fic for three months, it is certainly something really dear to me. I hope that it resonates with you, even a little. And if it does, that makes me happier than words can say.
> 
> Writing this was honestly pretty therapeutic, because of how comforting these characters are. It's so much of watching things that seem really fucking horrible, and telling you that things suck, but they will be okay. Things I took away from this: "take everything you know about yourself away, and where does this leave you?" thing. I've always had a thing (read: massive fear) about major changes, or things not fitting in with how your perceive them, and having to tear down all those misconceptions and reconstruct anew, something like that? I've always wondered what would happen if I never really understood myself at all, and what if I'm just setting out to make decisions that I'll regret for the rest of my life? And all these are things that keeps me up at night these days, so it just subconsciously made its way here, I guess.
> 
> I wanna talk about another thing I liked but at this rate it's just going to be me oversharing on ao3 notes, and you've just read a 44k (and mayhaps the first two parts) of me massively overshare and self-project, so if I ever write another essay on who I projected on in this fic I'll yoink it to my tumblr, and leave a link here? Maybe. We'll see.
> 
> An afternote: the Tchaikovsky 5th symphony at the very front was a foreshadowing that what comes after would be Tchai 6th and Tchaik 6th is Pathétique aka the one right before it all ends (Tchaikovsky passed away 9 days after it was first performed) so it signifies some sort of ending, I guess. Do what with this you will.
> 
> Anyway, if you've made it here, thank you. You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/aiviloti) and [tumblr](https://aiviloti.tumblr.com)! I'll be around if academia doesn't eat me.
> 
> If you liked this enough to want to share around, I made posts with graphics here :>  
> [ [tumblr](https://aiviloti.tumblr.com/post/630755108774395904/pt-3-of-nocturne-where-oikawa-returns-to-japan)! | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/aiviloti/status/1310246842714566656?s=20) ]
> 
> Edit: there's an [ANIMATIC NOW](https://twitter.com/tienwashere/status/1318274839963181058?s=20) please go look at it it'll only take so little of your time i swear it's so beautiful and everything i wanted
> 
> there is also [thIS ART](https://twitter.com/whysosearius/status/1318602661025832960) that this kind of inspired!! go look!!!


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